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

by Robbins, David

  Nate reluctantly decided to drop the subject. Further questions would be a rude breach of Indian etiquette and might offend Red Hawk. He heard voices upraised in anger and looked up to see Spotted Bull and White Lynx arguing. Lame Elk stood to one side, while behind White Lynx were two other warriors.

  “—none of your concern,” Spotted Bull was saying. “And I will not stand by and let you insult him.”

  “I never thought you would side with a white man against your own people,” White Lynx said.

  Nate was almost to them. Suddenly one of the other warriors saw him and whispered a word in warning to White Lynx, who looked over Spotted Bull’s shoulder and smirked.

  “And here he is now. We were just talking about you.”

  “So I gathered,” Nate said coldly. “If you have something to say about me, say it to my face.” He paused. “That is, if you are man enough.”

  White Lynx flushed scarlet and glowered. “No one can accuse me of being a coward. I have counted twelve coup, two on Blackfeet. Ten scalps hang in my lodge. And I have led five successful raids.”

  Despite himself, Nate was impressed. Twelve coup was quite a feat, above average for a man White Lynx’s age. Even more remarkable were the five successful raids. It meant that the raiding parties had not lost a single warrior, and losses of one or two men on a raid were not uncommon. White Lynx, therefore, for all his fiery temperament, was a competent, brave warrior who must enjoy considerable esteem in his tribe. Nate kept his features composed and said, “Then tell me what you were talking about.”

  “I was telling Spotted Bull that he makes a mistake in letting you stay with him,” White Lynx said. “Even though you took one of our women for your wife, you do not have the best interests of our people at heart. You are like some other white men I have known. You think you know better than we do how we should live our lives.”

  Nate was about to protest when he realized that the Shoshone, in a sense, was right. He’d known his fair share of trappers and traders who tended to look down their noses at the Indians and regarded all tribes with paternal contempt. There were many whites with very firm and drastic opinions on how to deal with the Indians, not the least of whom was President Andrew Jackson. “Old Hickory”—as Jackson was widely known because he had been as tough as hickory during his illustrious military career—felt it was the inalienable right of the federal government to do whatever might be necessary to subjugate the Indian tribes and force the Indians to live wherever the government saw fit to place them. Already thousands of Indians had been compelled to move west of the Mississippi, with countless numbers dying along the way. In the midst of his thoughts, Nate suddenly realized over half a minute had gone by and the Shoshones were regarding him expectantly.

  “Why do you not speak?” White Lynx asked.

  “I was thinking about your words,” Nate said. “And I agree with you to a point.”

  “You do?” White Lynx said in surprise.

  “Yes. Many whites do believe they know more about things than your people do,” Nate said, “but I have learned they are wrong. And the reason I objected to killing Red Hawk has nothing to do with such an attitude. I do not think any life should be taken lightly, even the life of an enemy. The man who does so is no better than the bear I have been named after.”

  The speech appeared to have a positive impact on the two warriors with White Lynx. They exchanged looks and one of them said softly, “His words are true, I think.”

  White Lynx cocked his head and examined Nate as if under a microscope. “Perhaps I have misjudged you a little, but I still feel we are making a mistake by not killing this Oglala right away. And tonight I will argue at the council to have him put to death.”

  “What if the council decides against you?” Nate asked.

  “Then I will abide by their wishes,” White Lynx said, his tone implying he would rather not. He abruptly turned around and walked off without another word, his friends in tow.

  Nate looked at Spotted Bull. “I am sorry for any problems this will cause you.”

  “There may be a few like White Lynx who will think badly of me for a time, but most of the tribe will understand,” Spotted Bull said, leading the way northward.

  “I hope so,” Nate replied. He glanced at Red Hawk to make certain the Sioux was following, then surveyed the encampment. The situation accented his odd feeling of being an outsider, and he began to wish he’d stayed back in the cabin. Then he thought of Winona. “I forgot to bring this up earlier, but I have been told that your tribe uses midwives to assist women in having babies.”

  “This is so,” Spotted Bull said.

  “Can you recommend a good one?” Nate asked. Behind him Lame Elk gave a little laugh.

  “Your wife can pick a midwife on her own. Having babies is something women do very well. Men should not concern themselves with such matters.”

  “I am concerned for Winona’s safety and health,” Nate said defensively. “What is wrong with that?”

  “You have much to learn about men and women,” Lame Elk said. “There are certain things only women are meant to do and other things only men are meant to do. Since there has never been a single man who has given birth, so far as I am aware, it is best for men to let women take care of dropping babies. They know how to do it. We do not. It is as simple as that, and that is why it is unwise for a man to meddle in the affairs of women and for women to meddle in our affairs.”

  Spotted Bull chuckled. “You are talking in circles again.”

  “No, you are listening in circles,” the elderly Shoshone said.

  Nate was about to press for more information on the midwives when a shriek of sheer terror sounded to the east. Immediately Spotted Bull turned and ran to investigate. “Come,” Nate signed to Red Hawk and followed.

  Other Shoshones were hastening toward the person who had screamed, a young woman standing at the very edge of the encampment with her face buried in her hands. She sobbed hysterically.

  Nate slowed as he neared her. Several women and men were already there, trying to comfort her and asking about the reason for the scream. They spoke swiftly, almost too fast for Nate to understand. Then the terrified woman answered, and he was able to get the gist of her statement.

  Her child had been crying, and to teach it a lesson she had taken the infant out past the last row of lodges in the village and hung the child’s cradleboard on a bush. This was a widespread Indian custom. Crying was not permitted because the wailing could give away the position of a camp to enemies who might be in the area. Consequently, when babies cried too long or too loud they were taken out and hidden in the brush. When the infants calmed down, their mothers retrieved them. It seldom took more than two or three times for even the most stubborn child to learn that crying wasn’t tolerated and to refrain from doing so.

  Now this woman had done the same thing, but when she heard her baby stop wailing and went to get it, the child and the cradleboard were gone and imprinted in the soil near the bush were the large tracks of a mountain lion.

  As the distraught mother concluded her narrative, warriors hastened off to grab their weapons and other women tried to comfort her.

  Nate saw Spotted Bull race away, then faced eastward. He already had his Hawken. If he hurried, he’d reach the scene first and possibly find the big cat if it was still in the area, before a group of excited warriors arrived to scare it off. He broke into a run, the rifle clutched in his right hand, and quickly left the crowd behind. Winding among the lodges, he soon came to the perimeter. Only then did he become aware of the soft pad of footsteps to his rear, and he stopped to look over his left shoulder.

  Red Hawk was trailing along, ten feet back.

  “Stay here,” Nate signed. “A mountain lion has taken a child and I must try to save it.”

  The Oglala halted and scanned the terrain ahead. “I will stay with you,” he signed.

  “But you are unarmed.”

  “I will not stay in the village
without you,” Red Hawk said. “What does it matter whether I face a mountain lion or White Lynx?”

  Reluctantly, Nate resumed running. Had there been more time he would have argued the point, but every second wasted now was crucial. There was a slim chance the infant was still alive. Mountain lions often took their prey into thickets or crevasses where the meat could be consumed in peace and quiet, and if he could locate the cat swiftly then the baby stood a chance. If not, he didn’t like to think about the consequences.

  A narrow field bordered the village on the east. Beyond the field lay rugged woodland.

  As Nate sprinted across the field he spied a tall bush off to the left, beside a small boulder. The bush had thick limbs, ideal for supporting a cradleboard. On a hunch he ran to the bush and examined the ground around it, but he saw nothing until Red Hawk gave his arm a nudge.

  The Sioux pointed at a circle of barren earth next to his moccasins.

  Goose bumps broke out over Nate’s skin as he laid eyes on the immense paw print. He’d seen panther tracks before, distinctive by their large size, their four toes, and a complete absence of claw marks. In this case the print measured approximately four inches in length and four-and-a-half inches in width, exceptionally big even for a mountain lion. He guessed that the print was of a front foot because the front feet were normally larger than the rear feet. Even so, they were after a giant feline.

  Red Hawk pointed to the southeast, the direction the print was slanted, and led the way.

  Nate was about to object, but changed his mind. Undoubtedly the Oglala was a much better tracker. He would rely on Red Hawk’s skill and stay alert enough to protect his newfound friend should they run into trouble.

  They entered the forest and found more tracks in a small clearing. Red Hawk picked up the pace, reading the signs faster than seemed humanly possible. Predictably, the big cat had stuck to the open ground in its haste to put distance between itself and the village.

  Nate constantly scoured the vegetation before them, hoping to glimpse the predator and its tiny burden. Since they had not found the cradleboard yet, he figured the panther must have the board in its mouth. An image of the cat’s long teeth impaling the infant brought a shudder to his spine, and he shook his head to dispel it.

  Cradleboards were universally used by Indians. Consisting essentially of a wooden frame over which a soft pouch was sewn, the ingenuous device was used to transport an infant everywhere. It could be slung on the mother’s back, hung on a horse, strapped to a travois, or simply carried when the tribe was on the march. And when not being used to convey the baby, the cradleboard could be leaned against any convenient support, such as the wall of a lodge. At all times the baby was kept upright. The cradleboards varied widely in size and construction. Those of wealthy parents were often gaily painted and adorned with beads or horse hair. Those owned by poorer parents usually were little more than a bare skin stretched over the wood frame.

  Nate realized the prints were leading toward a dense thicket, and he hoped the cat might be within the tangle of vegetation. Instead, the tracks skirted the thicket on the right and continued southeastward, perhaps in the direction of the mountain lion’s den. Doubt assailed him, and he wondered if they were wasting their time, if the lion was already feasting on the child.

  Then, from not more than a dozen yards in front of them, there came a low, raspy snarl.

  Chapter Ten

  The dense undergrowth prevented Nate from spotting the big cat. He tucked the Hawken to his shoulder to be ready in case it should charge out at them and quickly stepped abreast of Red Hawk to be in a better position to defend him. The trees ahead thinned out, and there appeared to be a clearing on the other side of a wide strip of waist-high weeds. Maybe, he reasoned, the mountain lion had stopped there to eat.

  Red Hawk motioned for Nate to stop and went to move into the weeds.

  Nate gripped the Oglala’s arm and held him in place. When Red Hawk looked at him questioningly, he used one hand to indicate he was going to take the lead. With his other hand, Nate parted the weeds quietly, his nerves on the raw edge, his eyes darting right and left. Seven yards into the strip he noticed a break in the vegetation a few more yards in front of him. Puzzled, he warily stepped forward until he could see that the break was actually a drop-off, the top of an earthen bank that blocked from his view whatever lay below.

  Exercising extreme caution, Nate moved closer to the rim of the bank. He heard a guttural cough, then the distinct whine of an infant. The baby was down there! Eager to save the child, he dashed forward and took in the scene twelve feet below.

  The mountain lion stood in the middle of a secluded gully. At its huge feet rested the cradleboard, and the child inside was crying softly and waving its arms about, its small fingers jutting out of the opening at the top. The lion was eyeing the baby hungrily and might tear into it at any moment.

  Nate took a hasty bead on the cat’s head, hoping to end the menace with one shot, but in his eagerness he took another half step forward to be sure of not missing. He began to steady his rifle when he felt his left foot slip out from under him. Startled, he realized he was going over the bank, and the next second he plummeted feet first toward the ground below. Although Nate fell only twelve feet, the landing jarred his feet and legs, pitching him off balance so that he wound up on his stinging knees, the rifle clutched firmly in both hands. The cougar crouched and regarded him coldly.

  He started to bring the Hawken to bear again when the big cat suddenly came toward him, walking slowly, its pads making no noise whatsoever. Only six feet separated them, and at such close range, staring into the depths of the mountain lion’s eerie, slanted eyes, he froze. He wanted to shoot, to slay the beast, but try as he might his mind refused to function, refused to relay the mental message to his arms and hands.

  The mountain lion came within two feet and halted. It regarded him intently, as if trying to make up its mind whether he qualified as dinner.

  Now that the cat was so close, Nate couldn’t fully extend the rifle to fire. He would have to level the gun from the waist and shoot. At such short range the odds of missing were remote, which bolstered his confidence. He girded himself, then swept into motion, whipping the Hawken barrel up as his thumb cocked the hammer. In the blink of an eye the muzzle was trained on the panther and his finger curled around the trigger. The blast caused the powerful rifle to buck in his hands and discharged a small cloud of gunsmoke.

  Unfortunately, at the very instant he fired, the mountain lion leaped to one side, perhaps goaded by a primordial instinct that told it the gun was dangerous. The ball missed by a fraction and the lion vented an enraged roar, then pounced.

  Nate was knocked onto his back by the heavy beast, the Hawken wedged between them. Inadvertently, the rifle saved his life, because the first swipe of the cat’s razor-tipped claws was accidentally deflected by the Hawken. The panther snapped at Nate’s face, and he narrowly evaded its raking teeth by twisting his head to the right. Frantic, he heaved, striving to throw the creature off him, but the huge lion weighed upwards of three hundred pounds and it barely budged despite Nate’s efforts. A paw struck his left shoulder a glancing blow, ripping open his buckskin shirt and slicing into his soft flesh. He squirmed and thrashed in a desperate bid for freedom, staring into the glaring orbs of his feline adversary, orbs that promised imminent death.

  Unexpectedly, there came a whoop and something hit the mountain lion’s left side. The cat bounded off Nate and whirled, temporarily forgetting about him to confront another attacker.

  Nate scrambled to his feet, astounded to see Red Hawk beside the cradleboard, rocks held in each hand. He realized the Oglala had saved his life by throwing a rock at the panther, and he hoped to return the favor before the mountain lion sprang. Letting the rifle fall, he grabbed at his twin flintlocks, a hand closing on each one. But he was too late.

  The cat hissed and leaped.

  Red Hawk hurled both stones simultaneously even
as he ducked low. Struck in the face, the mountain lion involuntarily jerked to the right, ruining the angle of its jump. It landed a yard shy of its intended victim and crouched, snarling savagely.

  Nate wanted to shoot but couldn’t. The cat was between Red Hawk and him, and there was the chance a ball would pass completely through the feline and hit the Sioux—or worse, the child. So he darted to the left to get a better shot.

  Red Hawk was also in motion. He pivoted, clutched the cradleboard to his chest, and took off for the opposite side of the gully.

  The lion roared and began to pursue him.

  Finally Nate had the angle he wanted. He brought both flintlocks up, the hammers clicking as he cocked them, and squeezed both triggers at the same time. The smoothbore single-shot .55 caliber guns boomed louder than any rifle.

  Two balls caught the big cat behind the left shoulder and bored deep into its body. It went down, rolling over and over, growling horribly, then stood upright with its face distorted in feral hatred. Blood oozed from the wounds, staining the beast’s tawny hide a dark crimson.

  Red Hawk reached the sheer gully wall and paused, seeking a way out. The child bawled in abject fright.

  The mountain lion moved toward the Oglala and the baby.

  There was no time for Nate to reload his pistols; he tossed them aside and drew his butcher knife, then ran to intercept the panther. A knife was no match for the cat’s claws, but he would rather sell his life dearly than let the predator slay the infant. He vented a whoop that would have done justice to the fiercest Blackfoot who ever lived, trying to draw the cat’s attention.

  But the mountain lion ignored him. Instead, it crouched and coiled its mighty muscles for another leap at Red Hawk.

  “No!” Nate shouted, afraid all his effort would be in vain. Then, from his rear, arose a series of low twangs, one after the other, at least a dozen in swift succession, and he heard a buzzing noise as slender shafts streaked past him to thud into the panther.

  One moment the big cat was about to spring. The next, a dozen shafts protruded from its body and it was flipping wildly about, trying to tear out the offending arrows. It succeeded in breaking off two of them, but was unable to remove the barbed points imbedded in its sleek form. In a berserk fury it became a whirlwind of motion until, abruptly, it stiffened, vented a scream that sounded remarkably like that of a terrified woman, and collapsed on its side.