One of the women spotted him and whispered to her companions. All three halted.
“Hello,” Nate said, smiling to show he was friendly. He nodded at Winona. “My wife is having a baby. We need our privacy for the time being. Would you mind going well around us?”
The three Shoshones gazed past him, then talked excitedly. Finally, the shortest woman spoke. “Is your wife having a problem?”
“No. She is fine so far.”
“Why are you here?”
“To do whatever I can,” Nate said and became annoyed when they grinned and resumed whispering. “We really need to be by ourselves,” he said and was grateful when they angled to the southeast and melted into the vegetation. They were bound to relate the encounter to their friends and relatives, and before long it would be common knowledge in the village. He might become the laughingstock of the tribe. But who cared? he asked himself. Winona was more important than idle gossip.
He heard Winona begin breathing in a nosier fashion, like a horse that had run five miles nonstop, and turned back in time to see the baby’s head appear. Entranced, he edged closer. That was when he registered movement at the periphery of his vision and glanced to the north to discover the coyote.
Chapter Twelve
Nate jerked both flintlocks out and trained them on the slinking beast. He knew that coyotes sometimes hung around the outskirts of Indian villages in the hope of obtaining food. They would eat practically anything, and when butchered animal carcasses were tossed into the weeds, as often happened, the coyotes were there to gulp down whatever remained. And when the lodges were struck and a village moved on, coyotes frequently checked the campsite for edible scraps left behind or deliberately dumped.
This one happened to be a large male. It was wending through the undergrowth, fixedly gazing at Winona. Fifteen yards off the coyote halted.
Nate had never heard of coyotes attacking people and he was at a loss to explain the beast’s behavior. With Winona preoccupied and unable to protect herself, he didn’t want the coyote anywhere in the area. Wagging the pistols, he dashed toward it in an attempt to scare it off, not harm it.
The coyote held its ground for all of two seconds, then wheeled and sped off, its bushy tail held level with its body.
Stopping, Nate waited until the beast was gone before sticking the flintlocks under his brown belt and returning to his wife. Her entire body trembled from her supreme exertion. He moved to the left a bit for a better view of the baby and squatted.
The infant’s head, neck, and a trace of its shoulders were out of Winona’s womb, suspended just above the soft buffalo robe which was drenched by her fluids. The baby’s eyes were closed, and it breathed shallowly.
Nate studied his offspring intently, mesmerized. He hadn’t realized how small the child would be. Everything about it was tiny: tiny nose, tiny mouth, tiny ears, tiny hands, tiny fingers. It seemed so fragile that he was amazed it could survive the ordeal. His heart went out to the little treasure and joy filled him. Soon, if nothing went wrong, he would be a proud father, and he couldn’t wait to hold the baby in his arms.
Was it a boy or a girl? He leaned forward, unable to determine the sex from the countenance or the small amount of hair. Winona was grunting, her eyes shut tight, oblivious to the world around her. He wanted to touch her, to let her know he was right there, but he was afraid the innocent gesture might break her concentration. A slight squishing noise drew his eyes to the baby, who had emerged a hair farther. The shoulders appeared to be wedged fast.
Winona began panting and rested her forehead on her forearm. Sweat coated her face and dripped from her legs. She spoke, the words almost inaudible, getting a word or two out between each pant. “Are you still here, husband?”
“No, I went to the lodge. Lame Elk and I are sitting around talking about the good old days,” Nate said, grinning. “Need you ask?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
“I don’t understand. What did I do?”
“How is the baby?”
“Fine, as near as I can tell,” Nate said.
Nate glanced at the quietly resting infant. He wondered if Winona was aware that most of the baby was still up inside her. “Uh, dearest, there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“The baby isn’t all the way out yet.”
“I know.”
“You do? Then why have you stopped?” Nate asked. He blinked in bewilderment when she lifted her head and gave him a look capable of withering a plant at ten paces.
Winona sighed, adjusted her grip on the sapling, and strained.
Cocking his head, Nate watched the rest of the birth. Her thighs quivered and more fluid came out as the baby’s shoulders slowly eased nearly all the way from her womb. She halted again, inhaling and gathering her strength, and when next she applied herself she wheezed mightily. He heard a plop as the shoulders finally slipped free, and he saw the infant slide onto the robe on its back.
It was a boy!
The word rang in Nate’s head like the clanging of the church bell on a bright Sunday morning back in New York City. He almost laughed aloud in delight at the sight of the baby. In every respect the child was an exquisite copy of himself, although he noted definite traces of Winona’s ancestry in the boy’s face. He was amazed at how fragile and vulnerable newborn infants were, even more so than the colt he’d seen being born, and he pondered how dependent the child would be on Winona and him during his first few years of life.
What was that? Nate wondered when, to his surprise, he noticed a rope-like cord extending from the baby’s stomach up into Winona. Then he realized it was the umbilical cord. Fortunately, the cord wasn’t wrapped around the infant’s neck, as occasionally happened. If it had been, his child might have emerged from the womb dead or been strangled during birth. Nate shuddered at the thought.
He emerged from his reverie and realized that Winona wasn’t done.
He listened to her grunt as she worked her stomach and leg muscles anew. The umbilical cord inched a bit lower, then stopped descending. Her whole body shook, yet still the cord hung in place. To him, it seemed as if it was taking her longer to drop the cord than the baby.
“Nate?”
“It’s a boy,” he told her proudly.
“A boy?” Winona asked. “The Great Medicine has been kind to us. The next time, though, I want a girl.” She suddenly groaned.
Nate glanced up, saw his wife looking at him, and was shocked at the utter exhaustion he read in her drooping eyes and the deep lines in her face. “Yes?”
“I need your help.”
“You do?” Nate said, confounded by the request. What in the world could he do to assist at this stage of the birth? A disturbing possibility occurred to him and his gaze dropped to between her legs.
“Pull it out.”
“Me?”
“It is stuck.”
“Me?”
“Is our son sitting up yet?”
“No.”
“Then it must be you,” Winona said wearily. “I am tired, Nate. So tired. Please. We can go back once it is done and I can rest.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Is the great Grizzly Killer afraid?”
“Scared to death,” Nate said and reluctantly bent forward, his hair brushing her leg as he tentatively reached under her to gently grasp the spongy umbilical cord. Her sweet scent engulfed him. Queasiness flooded through him and he clamped his mouth shut to prevent the contents of his stomach from mixing with the puddle of blood and other fluid already soaking into the robe. The touch of the cord brought gooseflesh to every square inch of his skin.
“Pull slowly,” Winona cautioned. “Do not break it.”
“Lord, help me,” Nate said, and did as she wanted, terrified of making a mistake and snapping the cord in half. If the afterbirth didn’t come out, she might sicken and die. It had happened to other women, which was
why doctors took such careful pains to guarantee every last bit was removed.
“Slowly,” Winona said again.
As if pulling on the delicate stem of a flower, Nate gently applied enough force to draw the cord slowly lower. Inch by gradual inch, it came out. Suddenly the cord stopped. Deep inside her the afterbirth had encountered an obstruction or was somehow snagged. He tugged lightly, but the cord wouldn’t budge.
“What has happened?” Winona asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Nate said, feeling sweat form under his arms. “It’s stuck again. Maybe I should run to the village and get Morning Dove or Willow Woman.”
“And leave our son and me here alone?”
Nate frowned at his stupidity. “No, I guess not.”
“Keep trying. I trust you.”
“Thanks,” Nate said, wishing he trusted his own ability half as much as she did. He lay on his stomach and reached higher, grasping the cord just below her body, his fingers brushing against her as he pulled once more. The added leverage helped. Abruptly, the umbilical cord eased out and brought with it the rest of the afterbirth, falling clear of her body onto his right hand. He brought his arm out from under her and stared in horrified astonishment at the eerie mass clinging to his flesh. For a few moments he felt dizzy and worried he might humiliate himself by fainting.
“It’s out, isn’t it?” Winona asked.
Nate went to answer but his mouth was completely dry. The best he could do was imitate a tree frog.
“What?” Winona said. “Can you see the afterbirth? Is it out?”
“It’s out,” Nate managed to say.
“Are you all right?”
“Never better,” Nate fibbed and placed the afterbirth on the robe. He rose, his knees unsteady, and mechanically brushed dirt and bits of grass from his buckskins.
Winona, her features contorted, painfully straightened until her knees audibly popped. As she moved haltingly to one side, her dress fell down around her ankles. She gazed down at the baby, happiness replacing her discomfort. “Our son,” she said with pride.
“Want me to carry him back?” Nate said.
“There is something I must do first,” Winona said and sank to her knees beside the baby. She caressed its cheeks and head, cooing tenderly in Shoshone, then traced a finger around the umbilical cord where it was attached to the child’s abdomen.
Mystified, Nate watched her examine the cord. All was explained the instant she picked up the small knife she had brought along. “Are you fixing to cut the cord?” he asked.
“Unless you would rather do it?”
“Go ahead,” Nate said and casually placed a hand over his mouth to be on the safe side. The vertigo struck him again when she started to slice and he had to turn away to suppress another bout of sickness. His whole body shuddered. He didn’t dare risk a peek as she finished her task. A minute went by.
“Here. You can hold him now.”
Nate turned, relieved to see that she had swaddled their son in a clean corner of the buffalo robe. The rest of the robe dangled underneath. He took the bundle in his arms, amazed at how dainty the child was, and felt unbridled love course through his being for his wife and the new pride of their life. At that moment, in that time and place, in that heartbeat of eternity, his love was pure and absolute, bordering on reverence. Was this how every new father felt?
Using the tree for support, Winona stood. “We must hurry,” she said. “He must be bathed and wrapped in a clean blanket before he becomes sick.”
“Lean on me,” Nate told her. She put her left hand on his shoulder and took a step that any self-respecting snail could have beaten. “You were magnificent,” he complimented her, staying by her side as she walked westward.
Winona beamed. “So were you. I am glad you insisted on being there. If you had not been, I would never have gotten the afterbirth out.”
“You’ll be fine once you’ve rested,” Nate said and twisted his head to peck her on the cheek. “I’ve never seen anyone work so hard at anything. You must want to sleep around the clock.”
“No, although you would think that would be the case,” Winona said. “My strength is returning quickly. By tomorrow I will be up and about as if nothing had happened.”
“Don’t push yourself,” Nate cautioned and glanced at the baby. Something about the child was different, and it wasn’t until the infant blinked that he realized his son’s eyes were open. “Look,” he exclaimed. “His eyes are brown.”
Winona stared affectionately at their offspring and rested her head on Nate’s broad shoulder. “We must select a name for him.”
“So soon?”
“It is the custom of my people to pick a name before a sleep has gone by,” Winona said, then tilted her head upward. “I did not think to ask. Do you want to give him a Shoshone name or a white man’s name?”
“Why not both?”
“A fine idea,” Winona said. “Then he will be at home in both worlds.” She straightened and surveyed the forest around them, a shadow creeping over her face. “I see nothing worth naming a son after, not even an animal.”
“Too bad you weren’t paying attention while you were giving birth,” Nate said. “A coyote tried to sneak up on you but I chased the critter off.”
“A coyote?”
“Yep. One of the biggest male coyotes I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Nate confirmed.
“It is an omen.”
“What?”
Winona laughed and squeezed his arm in her gaiety. “A sign from the Everywhere Spirit. Don’t you see, husband? We are supposed to name our son Sneaking Coyote.”
Nate snorted. “Like hell we will.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No son of mine is going around with a name that implies he skulks about like a thief in the night,” Nate said. “I don’t mind the Coyote part, but the first half has to go.” He pondered for a minute. “How about Stalking Coyote? It has a ring to it, just like a warrior’s name should.”
“Stalking Coyote,” Winona repeated, rolling the words on her tongue. “Yes, I like it very much. But what about his other name?”
“It goes without saying that his last name will be King,” Nate noted. “As for his first name, there is one I’ve been partial to ever since I was a boy.”
“What is it?”
“Orville.”
Winona scrunched up her nose as if she’d inhaled a bitter odor. “Orville?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with it?”
“It is difficult to describe. The best I can do is say it offends my ears. Perhaps you should pick another name.”
“I’ve always liked Orville.”
“Please. I agreed to change when you were upset.”
“True,” Nate said, racking his brain for another name worthy of being bestowed on their son. Finally the perfect choice occurred to him. “I have another suggestion. It was the name of my great-great-grandfather, and I like it almost as much as I do Orville.”
“What is this one?” Winona asked uncertainly.
“Zachary.”
“I like it,” Winona said without hesitation. “Zachary King is a fine name.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Nate said and lifted their child higher so he could lightly kiss the boy on the forehead. “Zachary King and Stalking Coyote it is. Now let’s go introduce you to your mother’s people.”
“Yours also, husband.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next three days were some of the happiest of Nate’s entire life. He basked in the profound happiness of having a new son, and took great comfort in the steady string of well-wishers who stopped by Spotted Bull’s lodge to relay their congratulations and kind regards. The Shoshones revered all life, as did most Indian tribes, and they took particular delight in newborns. They saw spirit omens in everything, and infants, especially male infants, were regarded as confirmation of the Everywhere Spirit’s blessing.
The birth of Stalking Coyote, following as it did
so closely on the heels of the incident with the mountain lion, convinced the Shoshones that Nate was a man who brought good fortune on himself and others. Several prominent warriors told him outright that he possessed great medicine, and he basked in their esteem and good will.
To make matters complete, Nate was elated when the council decided to let Red Hawk stay at the village for as long as he wanted. The leaders of the tribe had decided that any man willing to risk his life to save a Shoshone child was a true friend of their people. Spotted Bull insisted on permitting Red Hawk to stay with him.
So on the fourth day Nate sat outside of the lodge, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his face, and counted himself fortunate at the way things had worked out. He had a new son, a new friend, and a new appreciation of the Shoshones. After their marvelous display of friendship, he felt more at home among them than he ever had before. He heard footsteps, and around the corner came his host and the Oglala. “How do you like your new horses?” he inquired using sign.
“They are fine animals,” Red Hawk replied in kind and looked at Spotted Bull. “I appreciate your generosity, but I will never be able to give you a gift of equal value.”
“A gift should never be given with thought of a reward,” Spotted Bull said. “And you will need horses if you hope to have your own lodge.”
“What is this?” Nate asked.
Red Hawk took a seat. “I cannot stay in Spotted Bull’s lodge forever. It would be unfair to his family.” He gazed out over the lake. “I have been giving the matter much thought, and I have decided to live among the Shoshones until my breath fades away on the wind. They have accepted me without question. They have given me the chance to start my life over. To do that, I need my own lodge. Only then can I hope to acquire a wife.”
“A lodge will be easy to make once you have enough buffalo hides and poles,” Nate said.
“A man can get poles any time,” Red Hawk signed. “Buffalo hides take longer to collect. First enough buffalo must be slain, and hunting them down one or two at a time could take two moons or more.”
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