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

by Robbins, David

  One down, two to go.

  He went to each of his remaining victims and appropriated their hair, and as he finished with the last Blood the Shoshones drifted back. He cut off a strip of fringe from his buckskin shirt and used it to tie the scalps to his saddle horn, where the air would soon have them dry and ready for storage in his saddlebags.

  Red Hawk rode up. “This day has made me proud that the Shoshones have accepted me into their tribe,” he signed. “They are brave warriors, as brave as any Oglala who ever lived.”

  “That they are,” Nate said.

  Red Hawk nodded at the scalps. “You killed three. So did I. This has been a great day for both of us.”

  “I’ll never forget it.”

  “There is only one thing I regret,” Red Hawk said.

  “What?”

  “That there were not more Bloods. I would have been glad to kill three or four more.”

  “There will be other days.”

  The Oglala smiled. “That is what I like about you, Grizzly Killer. You always look at the good side of things.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Shoshones lost seven warriors, which was not considered a high price to pay for the hair of twenty-one Bloods. Spotted Bull held a council to decide what to do with the bodies of their fallen friends. Ordinarily, Shoshone warriors could expect elaborate burials. But when they died on raids or while out hunting far from their village, they were frequently committed to the earth at the first convenient spot. In this case, since the hunting party had traveled less than two sleeps from the village, and since the entire village was on the march and had narrowed the distance even farther, it was unanimously decided to have six warriors take the bodies back. This left twenty-eight, including Nate, to go on in search of the buffalo.

  Spotted Bull pointed out that it meant their fellow tribesmen would stop for a day to properly dispatch the fallen to the spirit realm. So it would be at least one sleep longer before the members of the hunting party saw their loved ones again. The delay, he stressed, couldn’t be helped. None of the warriors complained.

  Nate would have liked to be one of those taking the bodies back so he could see Winona and Zachary. But he wasn’t asked and didn’t think it proper to volunteer his services when he had specifically been invited along as a guest of honor. He helped drape the deceased over their war-horses, then stood enviously watching the six warriors lead the animals off.

  The band mounted up and resumed their trek eastward. Hours later, almost at nightfall, they came to a pond and Spotted Bull called a halt. Several warriors went off after game while the rest started fires and tended the horses.

  Nate assisted Red Hawk in watering a number of animals, and as he worked, he reflected. On the long ride to the pond he had listened to the warriors proudly relating their exploits during the battle, and he found himself speculating on why he couldn’t enter into the spirit of things, why slaying enemies sometimes bothered him so much. He’d lost track of the number of men he’d killed since taking up residence in the Rockies. Some, such as the many Blackfeet he’d slain, didn’t upset him in the least. Others, like the Bloods, did. But he couldn’t figure out why.

  “Is something wrong, Grizzly Killer?” Red Hawk signed.

  Nate realized the warrior was studying him intently. He was about to lie, to sign everything was fine, when he changed his mind. “Does killing men ever bother you?” he asked.

  The Oglala’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

  “It does?”

  “A warrior would have to possess a heart of stone not to be affected by the taking of another life. When I was a child, I was taught to have deep reverence for all living things, and especially for those things I kill. If I shoot a deer, I always give thanks to the Everywhere Spirit for the gift of the life I had taken.”

  “But a man isn’t a deer.”

  “True. I killed my first man, a member of a Cheyenne raiding party who was trying to steal some of our horses, when I was only twelve winters old. For the longest time the deed upset me, and I would have terrible dreams of the man lying in the dust with my arrow in his eye socket and raising his arm to point an accusing finger at me. Finally, when I was older, I went off on a vision quest, and the vision I saw cured me of the terrible dreams forever.”

  Nate knew of such quests, of how young Indian men and women would go off by themselves to remote spots and fast or commit self-torture in the hope of being visited by a supernatural being who would become the personal guardian spirit of that youth for the remainder of his or her days. The guardian instructed the seeker in proper behavior and in how to perform rituals that would foster health and happiness. “What happened?” he asked.

  Red Hawk gazed into the distance. “I saw many strange and wondrous things, but one of the most amazing was the great fiery vulture.”

  “A vulture?”

  “Yes. I saw a field, and on it lay many dead warriors. Then the vulture appeared, flying out of the sun to swoop down and land in the middle of all those dead men. As I watched, the bird began eating their flesh, wolfing it down in huge gulps. As soon as it was done with one body, it would turn to the next. And so it went, on and on, until the vulture had eaten every last warrior.”

  “And then?” Nate said when the Oglala stopped.

  “The vulture kept looking for more bodies to eat, but there were none. It looked and looked, becoming more and more desperate, running this way and that, until finally it grew weak and collapsed from lack of food,” Red Hawk said. “I wondered why it did not just fly back up into the sun, but visions are like that. They are not always logical.”

  Nate didn’t see the significance of the vision, but he refused to offend his friend by saying so.

  “I thought about it for a long time, and then the meaning became clear.”

  “It did?”

  “Men are meant to die. All men do, sooner or later. Whether they die in their blankets at an old age or die in battle while young, their destiny is all the same. We are all food for the vultures. If men were to stop dying, it would upset the natural order of things.”

  “But how did this help you get over being upset when you killed another person?”

  “Don’t you see? Men have been killing each other since the dawn of time. It is natural for men to kill, as natural as eating or sleeping or loving a woman. Yes, slaying another man bothers me, but only if I forget to keep in mind that when I kill I am doing one of the things I was created to do,” Red Hawk signed and stared expectantly at Nate. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Nate replied, although in all truth he didn’t. He refused to accept the tenet that men were natural-born killers, predators no different from the grizzly and the mountain lion. There had to be more to humanity. There had to.

  “You still appear troubled,” Red Hawk said.

  “I am,” Nate said. “You see, when I was young, I was taught that a man should never kill. Never. It is one of the ten great laws of my people.”

  “Really?” Red Hawk asked in surprise. “Why is it, then, that so few white men I know follow it?”

  “Because my people love to have laws they can break.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Few things do in this world,” Nate muttered, then signed clearly, “I was taught that when a man kills and violates the great law, he displeases the Everywhere Spirit. He will end up in—” Nate paused, trying to find a comparable sign for the concept of Hell. There was none.

  “End up where?”

  “In a place where people are made to suffer for all time, where they burn in flames that never go out and their cries of agony are never answered.”

  “Your people truly believe this?”

  “Many do.”

  “The more I learn about your people, the less I understand them. How can mature men hold such a belief when everyone knows that in the spirit world there is no pain or suffering?”

  Nate was tempted to point out that a be
lief in Hell was no stranger than believing in the spiritual significance of visions that included bizarre apparitions such as the fiery vulture, but he held his tongue. What difference did it make? They could discuss the issue until winter, and it would not alter his confusion over killing. Maybe one day he’d find the answer he sought. Until then, he would simply live his life as best he knew how, kill only when put upon, and pray he didn’t jeopardize the status of his eternal soul in the bargain. To conclude their talk, he signed, “There is no explaining the things people will believe in.” Then he devoted his attention to watering more horses.

  The men who had gone out hunting returned with a black-tailed buck, and in due course the aroma of roasting meat wafted on the sluggish breeze. In good spirits, the Shoshones talked and joked until late.

  Nate ate his fill, then idly listened to the conversations while thinking about Winona and their son. After the surround—provided he survived—he would take them back to their cabin, and he planned to stop at Shakespeare’s en route. Maybe he would be able to prevail on his mentor to come for a visit. Winona would enjoy having Shakespeare’s wife for company, and he could avail himself of the grizzled mountaineer’s wisdom. He spent the hours until midnight reviewing the varied and hair-raising adventures that had befallen him since journeying west of the Mississippi River. At last, he wrapped up his introspection by marveling that he had lived as long as he had.

  The odds were against him in the long run.

  It was common knowledge that few of the white men who entered the uncharted wilderness to take up the trapping trade lasted very long at their new profession. Most perished within two years. Those who lasted three or more were considered old-timers. And rare men like Shakespeare, who had lasted decades, were living legends, widely respected for their store of valuable knowledge as well as their unwavering persistence and iron fortitude.

  Nate well knew the risks. But he wasn’t about to give up a way of life that totally satisfied every craving of his inner nature. Since coming to the mountains he had found true freedom, genuine peace of mind, and more adventure than most men underwent in their entire lifetimes. Despite the chronic dangers, he felt at home in the Rockies. The wilderness wasn’t so much a harsh taskmaster as an instructive tutor. If he kept his wits about him and avoided becoming food for a wandering grizzly or losing his hair to hostiles, he stood one day to be as Shakespeare now was—the epitome of the natural man, rugged and independent and, above all, wise.

  There were worse fates.

  ~*~

  The next morning the chirping of sparrows brought Nate out of heavy sleep half an hour before sunrise. He sat up, stretched, and noticed he was the first one up except for the sentry. The fire was still going strong. He rose, grabbed the Hawken, and walked into the brush to relieve himself.

  All around him the wild creatures were stirring, brought to life by the faint rays of light rimming the eastern horizon. Birds broke into song. The insects buzzed.

  Once done, he strolled back to the camp and took a handful of jerky from his saddlebags, then knelt by the fire and ate, enjoying the pungent odor of the burning wood and the warmth on his exposed skin. A few of the Shoshones were snoring. He surveyed the camp, seeing the dozens of buckskin-clad figures with their bows and lances close at hand in case of an emergency. For a fleeting interval he lost all sense of time and place. He had the illusion of being cast back into a primitive era before the coming of the white man to the shores of North America, of being stripped of every last vestige of civilization, of being primitive and in harmony with Nature. He felt as if he was as much a part of the wild as the trees and the beasts. Then Touch The Clouds snorted and sat up and the moment was ruined.

  “Grizzly Killer! You are awake early.”

  “Good morning,” Nate said.

  The giant yawned and gazed at the gradually brightening sky. “By tonight we should be close to the big buffalo herds. I can hardly wait.”

  “I am looking forward to finding them also,” Nate said to hold up his end of the conversation, and he abruptly realized he really was anticipating the upcoming hunt with keen relish. He didn’t know of any other white man, not even Shakespeare, who had been on a surround. That thought brought a tingle to his spine. Think of it, he told himself. The first white man ever to do such a thing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became.

  It was not long before all of the Shoshones were up and prepared to depart. Again Spotted Bull took the lead, and Nate fell in on the warrior’s right. During the morning hours little was said. At midday they halted briefly at a stream, then went on. Spotted Bull began relating tales from his youth, and for hours Nate listened in fascination to accounts of how it was in the Rockies long before the arrival of the white man. The Indians had lived much as they did now, as they had for more years than anyone could count. They roamed where they pleased, accountable to no one. Tribe had fought tribe. Warriors had married maidens and reared children. The cycle of life went on as it ever had. For the first time in his life, Nate viewed his own existence as a tiny drop in the river of history. He seemed so small and insignificant when compared to the unfolding tapestry of infinity.

  The terrain changed as the day progressed. There were fewer high mountains and more hills. By the afternoon they were in the midst of the foothills bordering the Rockies, and occasionally they glimpsed the plains beyond.

  Suppressed excitement animated the Shoshones the closer they drew to their destination. When, a few hours before dark, the scouts raced back to announce that the grasslands were right up ahead, the band broke into whoops of delight and urged their mounts into a mass gallop.

  Nate whooped with the loudest of them and waved his Hawken overhead. Although he had once crossed the plains to reach the Rockies, he had forgotten how vast the flatlands were, but was vividly reminded when the hunting party emerged from between two hills and halted at the edge of a sea of waving grass that stretched eastward as far as the eye could see.

  “We have arrived,” Spotted Bull said and nodded in satisfaction. “Tomorrow the hunt begins.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nate could barely sleep. Many of the warriors were the same way, tossing and turning in their blankets and muttering to themselves at their inability to rein in their surging emotions. He was lying on his back, his head propped on his hands, when dawn broke, and he leaped to his feet as soon as the first warrior did.

  Few were interested in breakfast. Spotted Bull divided the band into four groups with instructions to fan out in different directions in search of a large herd.

  Nate found himself in a group with Touch The Clouds, Red Hawk, Drags The Rope, Worm, Lone Wolf, and a warrior named Eagle Claw. He suspected that Spotted Bull deliberately placed him with men he knew well, out of kindness, no doubt, and was grateful for the consideration.

  Touch The Clouds led them northward along the fringe of the forest. After an hour a few dark dots appeared to the northeast, and the giant promptly halted.

  “Buffalo,” he said.

  “Do we try and get closer?” Nate asked.

  “Not yet,” Touch The Clouds said. “We do not want to spook them. They would run back to their herd and might in turn spook the whole bunch.” He paused. “Have you ever seen buffalo stampede?”

  “No.”

  “They do not stop for anything until they have totally worn themselves out. We would end up chasing them for a day and a night. I would rather keep the herd close to the foothills to make it easier on our women when the time comes to butcher those we slay.”

  “I understand.”

  “We will swing around them and seek the rest,” Touch The Clouds said and started off.

  Nate anxiously scanned the prairie for more dots. He counted five to the northeast; that was all. There were low hills a few miles past the quintet, and he wondered if the main body might be concealed on the opposite side.

  Touch The Clouds angled away from the forest, making a loop to the north of the fiv
e beasts, and headed toward those hills.

  A warm breeze fanned Nate’s face as he rode, stirring his long hair, reminding him of the scalps he had tied to his saddle horn the day before. They were still there, swaying with the rolling gait of the stallion. He touched them, running his fingers through the soft strands and feeling the consistency of the skin at the base of each trophy. They were dry. Later he would stuff them into his saddlebags, and when he got back to the cabin, he would add them to the string of those he had previously taken.

  When Touch The Clouds neared the first hill, he slowed and raised an arm to indicate caution. Hunching low over his mount, he advanced.

  Nate imitated the giant’s example. He held the rifle low at his side to prevent the sun from glinting off the metal and advertising his presence. Although he hoped to find more buffalo over the crest, he knew that strays often wandered miles from any given herd and that he shouldn’t be surprised to find the plain beyond empty.

  It wasn’t.

  Nate came to the top a few steps behind the giant, then halted in dumfounded astonishment at the spectacle of a veritable shaggy carpet of grunting, sniffing brutes that extended for countless miles into the distance. There were thousands and thousands of buffalo—perhaps hundreds of thousands. He heard someone gasp, then realized he had been the one.

  Once before Nate had seen a herd, when on his way from St. Louis to the Rockies with his Uncle Zeke. That herd had seemed immense at the time, but it paled into inconsequential puniness when compared with the herd now spread out before his wide eyes. It gave him the willies to see so many enormous beasts congregated together, and he shuddered to think what would happen should they suddenly stampede in his direction. Winona would never find all the tiny pieces.

  The males were magnificent, standing over six feet high at the shoulders and weighing about two thousand pounds. The females were only slightly smaller. Both possessed scruffy beards, shaggy manes, and a dark-brown hue. Wicked black horns forked out from their huge heads, with a spread of a yard from horn tip to horn tip. Large humps on their backs, above the shoulders, contained fat that Indians rated a delicacy. The tongue of a buffalo was given the same distinction.