As it was, the ploy worked. The hundreds of buffalo in the small section angled to the northeast, at least a third of the small herd well ahead of the pursuing Shoshones on both sides.
A minute elapsed, the race continuing. Nate inhaled dust and tasted it in his mouth. To his consternation, Spotted Bull unexpectedly went faster. He followed suit, riding as he had never before ridden, keenly aware of the warriors to his rear and the stream of buffalo off to his left, not more than fifteen yards away and drawing closer bit by bit as Spotted Bull slanted slowly toward them.
Nate risked a quick glance to his right to see if the main herd had moved and saw the whole great multitude in flight to the south. He couldn’t afford to watch the spectacle; he had more pressing concerns. Clearly, Spotted Bull was trying to overtake the lead bulls in order to start driving them back into the small herd, and it would take every ounce of stamina and speed their horses possessed to accomplish the feat, not to mention superb skill on the part of the riders.
The three hundred or more buffalo were still running hard, exhibiting the sterling endurance for which they were widely noted. Even the calves showed no sign of flagging. The bulls, ever more belligerent and naturally protective, were to the outside of the stampeding horde.
Nate screeched until his throat was raw, then screeched some more. He was pleased to see they were gaining on the herd leaders, but he dreaded what would occur once they caught up with the beasts. Turning such a swarm of massive brutes would be extremely dangerous. Now, more than ever, he understood why so many warriors lost their lives on a surround and why the women of the tribe became anxious at the mere mention of one.
He studied the buffalo, observing their peculiar gait, their bobbing heads, and their relatively short legs driving their enormous bodies, and he found himself wishing there were fewer of the brutes and more Shoshones participating in the chase.
After several more minutes, Nate was almost to the head of the herd. The din was deafening, a cacophony of pounding hooves, snorting brutes, and bleating, frightened calves. He repeatedly glanced at Spotted Bull, waiting for the warrior to cut in toward the lead bulls, knowing if he missed his cue he would overshoot the herd and make a prized fool of himself in the bargain.
Fortunately, Spotted Bull let everyone know his intent by bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Now!” Then, jerking on his mount’s reins, the Indian galloped at the foremost bulls, yelling and waving like a madman.
Nate immediately performed the same maneuver, his stallion responding superbly, his breath catching in his throat as he galloped straight at the front row of buffalo. Panic seized him, and he thought for a moment that the beasts wouldn’t turn, that they would plow into Spotted Bull and himself and probably the rest of the warriors, trampling every last man underfoot in the blink of an eye, reducing the hunters to so much pulp and crushed bone. He could see the lead bulls clearly, see their flared nostrils and their wide, dark eyes, see their sides heaving as they breathed, and see the curved horns that would rend him to pieces should anything go wrong.
Thankfully, no sooner did the hunting party turn than the foremost buffalo tried to flee to the north only to find their way blocked by Touch The Clouds and his men, who were cutting in from their side. Confused, trapped between the two groups of charging warriors, the lead bulls then did as the Shoshones were hoping: they abruptly turned back into the herd. Those following the leaders also turned inward, and the herd swirled in upon itself, in a state of utter confusion, many animals colliding, while a rising cloud of dust added immensely to the bedlam.
Nate saw Spotted Bull take aim with a bow and send a shaft into a bull. The brute staggered but stayed on its feet. A second arrow brought it down; it rolled forward and crashed into a cow. He glanced both ways and suddenly realized he was in the midst of the milling herd, surrounded by two-thousand-pound monsters, hemmed in with no way out.
Other warriors were in the same situation, and they were loosing arrows or employing lances to deadly effect, striving to slay as many buffalo as they could.
Nate glimpsed more Shoshones riding around the perimeter, trying to contain the disoriented beasts. Then he could not afford the luxury of simply observing; to stay alive he must kill and kill again. He whipped the Hawken to his right shoulder and took a bead on a huge bull nearby. At the sharp report, the bull crumpled onto its forelegs. Eager to finish it off, Nate reined up and started reloading. His fingers closed on the powder horn, and as he went to pour the proper amount of black powder into the palm of his left hand he happened to look to his right and saw another bull bearing down on his stallion with its head lowered, ready to gore and rip.
Chapter Nineteen
Nate hauled on the reins, turning the stallion to one side, and the bull went shooting past, its horn missing the horse by a hair. Expecting the bull to whirl and attack again, he rode behind a petrified cow to buy time to reload. To his amazement, the bull kept on going, ramming another bull instead, and the two took to fighting one another.
His fingers trembling, Nate poured out the powder. He wished he’d thought to ask for a lance. During the seconds he would be preoccupied with loading, he was a sitting target for any beast who spied him.
Be calm! he chided himself. Keep your hands steady! If he lost his nerve now, he was as good as dead. He didn’t dare freeze up momentarily, as he’d done with the mountain lion. He must keep firing and riding and pray for the best.
Pandemonium reigned. The buffalo were caught in a muddled maze of their own devising, with animals dashing every which way and having nowhere to go because they were blocked by others of their kind or the Shoshones, who were whooping and killing in reckless abandon, in the grip of a primitive blood lust.
Nate got the Hawken reloaded and looked around for the bull he’d wounded. The animal was nowhere in sight, hidden by the ever thickening shroud of dust. Suddenly a buffalo bumped into his stallion’s flank, and he goaded the horse forward but could only go a few feet so dense was the press of baffled brutes. Many buffalo were utterly confounded and stood there in helpless bewilderment, making no move to attack the Shoshones. Other animals, however, seemed to know instinctively just who to blame for their predicament and were charging the warriors as opportunities presented themselves.
Aiming hastily, Nate shot a cow. Reloading hurriedly, he shot another. His hands were a blur as he used the powder horn, reached into the ammunition pouch, and employed the ramrod. Move! Move! Move! he mentally shrieked. To slow down was to die.
He saw the bull he’d wounded and shot it, then moved a yard to reload yet again. The dust temporarily parted and he spotted Worm a dozen yards off, wedged in by buffalo and jabbing to the right and left with a lance. To his horror, an enormous bull lunged at Worm’s horse, the curved horns slicing into the poor mount’s stomach as easily as a sharp knife through butter. The war-horse threw back its head and neighed in terror, and then the buffalo slammed into it again and the horse went down.
Nate saw Worm leap clear, but now the Shoshone was afoot among the beasts, and Nate frantically kicked his stallion in an attempt to forge through the buffalo and reach the warrior. Worm speared a cow and she keeled over. The Shoshone rotated, his lance upraised for another cast.
Out of the pack came another bull, massive head down, hooves drumming forcefully.
“Worm!” Nate shouted in warning and gripped one of his pistols. The flintlocks wouldn’t down a buffalo, but they might distract it. He started to yank the gun free.
Worm turned, saw the charging bull, and went to cast his lance. The bull reached him first, its broad forehead smacking into his chest and lifting him clean off the ground.
Nate distinctly heard the loud crack of Worm’s ribs caving in. Blood spurted from the warrior’s mouth, and then Worm fell in front of the bull and was lost to sight. Other beasts trampled him.
Appalled, Nate reloaded the Hawken, aimed at a nearby bull, and fired. He didn’t know how long he could sustain such a hectic pace. His heart p
ounded in his chest and there was a roaring in his ears. Ignore it, he admonished himself. He had to ignore everything but the buffalo and shoot them until the rifle barrel became too hot to touch, and maybe he’d survive.
He downed another brute, then another, and lost track of the number he killed from there. Desperately, mechanically, he reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired. A small cloud of gunsmoke hovered above him, mixing with the dust. He shot and shot and shot until his hands were sore from shoving the ramrod home and his fingers were caked with grainy gunpowder. And still he shot some more.
Suddenly he noticed the buffalo had thinned out and he had extra space in which to turn the stallion. Either he had emerged from the center of the herd or the animals on the outer edge had fled, allowing those hemmed in the middle to flee. The dust was now so thick he could barely see ten feet in any direction. He spotted a dead horse to his right, but there was no sign of the rider. There were dead buffalo everywhere.
He skirted a convulsing cow and stopped when a Shoshone materialized out of the dust cloud like a ghost out of the fog. It was Spotted Bull, and the warrior smiled.
“Grizzly Killer! My wife will be pleased with her robe!”
Nate grinned, then stiffened when he spied a bull charging at Spotted Bull from the warrior’s right side. “Look out!” he cried, goading the stallion forward to try to intercept the beast.
But the buffalo was lightning fast, and it was on Spotted Bull before the man could move his horse out of its path. The brute rammed into the mount, knocking the horse flat. But as the animal went down, Spotted Bull vaulted from its back, landed on his right shoulder, and rolled to his feet, his right hand sweeping an arrow from his quiver.
He never got the shaft off.
Uttering a roar of rage, Touch The Clouds galloped onto the scene, his huge lance held with the sharpened tip down, his muscular body braced for the impact. He never slowed, never deviated from his course, charging the bull as it tried to go after his father. The lance tore into the bull’s side just shy of the ribs and sank in over a yard. The bull went berserk, thrashing and tugging to one side, trying to pull loose. Touch The Clouds held on firmly, his features flushed from the herculean exertion. He abruptly changed tactics, urging his horse to step forward, burying the lance farther.
The bull snorted, then went completely rigid and fell on its side with a pronounced thud.
Spotted Bull took two bounds and jumped up onto the back of Touch The Clouds’s horse. The giant rode to the left, disappearing in the cloud.
Relieved that his friend was safe, Nate resumed slaying buffalo, always alert for one that might come after him. He slew four, astounded that so many of the beasts simply stood there while he took their lives. If the Shoshones were having similar luck, he wouldn’t be surprised if they decimated the herd.
He rode fifteen yards after the fourth kill, seeking to add to his tally, and was surprised to find himself in the clear. There were no buffalo around. Reining up, he looked every which way, trying to see the rest of the herd. To his left the dust had thinned considerably and he saw a lone bull.
The animal wasn’t alone.
There were nine wolves ringing the horned behemoth, each snapping and biting at its legs and belly, trying to cripple it and bring it down.
Nate was stunned to see them. He had no idea where they came from. The bull, despite having sustained serious wounds and bleeding profusely in a half-dozen spots, was giving an excellent account of itself. Even as Nate watched, those twin horns of destruction lifted a yowling wolf high into the air, splitting its side. He decided not to interfere in the battle. There were plenty of buffalo to go around, for both humans and wolves.
Turning, he scanned the prairie, or as much of it as was visible in the slowly dispersing dust. He discerned a large animal lying on its side not far off and moved toward it, thinking it might be a buffalo that needed to be put out of its misery. But when he drew close enough, he recognized the animal was a horse.
He stopped next to the mount, frowning at the sight of the nasty gashes in its side, gashes spurting a torrent of blood. A thin crimson trail led from the back of the horse into the dust cloud, leading Nate to surmise a wounded warrior had crawled off to escape the buffalo responsible for the attack.
Nate went around the horse and rode into the cloud, hoping he could find the man and be of some assistance. Soon he distinguished the prone form of a Shoshone on the ground ahead. He hastened up to the body and, heedless of the danger, dropped to the earth. Kneeling, he gently gripped the warrior’s shoulder and rolled the man over.
It wasn’t a Shoshone.
Lying as still as a stone, his stomach torn to shreds, his intestines oozing out, was Red Hawk.
“No!” Nate screamed, dropping the Hawken and placing a hand on each side of the Oglala’s head. “Not you!”
Red Hawk’s eyelids fluttered, then snapped open. He grunted and blinked a few times before focusing on Nate. “Grizzly Killer,” he said in Shoshone. “Happy you. Good thing.”
“Do not talk,” Nate admonished him, unable to stop moisture from filling his eyes. “I will wrap your stomach in my blanket and take you to the village.”
Incredibly, Red Hawk grinned weakly. “No. Think not.”
“Oh, God,” Nate said in English, gaping in horror at the ruptured abdominal cavity. “Oh, sweet God.”
“What?” Red Hawk asked, again using Shoshone.
“I do not want you to die,” Nate said, choking on his words, swallowing hard when he was done.
“All die, Grizzly Killer,” Red Hawk said. He coughed and grimaced.
“There must be something I can do,” Nate said forlornly. Ineffable sorrow racked him, and he bit his lower lip to keep from crying.
“Remember me.”
“I will,” Nate promised. “Always.”
Red Hawk coughed louder, and crimson drops formed at both corners of his mouth. “Not long,” he breathed. His eyelids fluttered a second time. He wheezed, then regained full consciousness and stared intently at Nate. “One thing do me. Please.”
“Anything. Anything at all.”
“Tell Willow Woman—” Red Hawk began and stopped to groan and shiver. He took a deep breath and continued swiftly. “Tell Willow Woman I sorry. Love her much.”
Nate tried to respond but his throat was strangely constricted.
“Please,” Red Hawk said.
“I will,” Nate croaked.
A serene expression came over Red Hawk’s face and he smiled. “Thank you, friend. Thank you.”
Nate felt the Oglala stiffen and saw Red Hawk’s eyes go blank. “No!” he wailed and violently shook his friend’s head, trying to shake the life back into him, shaking until his arms were so tired they could barely move. He belatedly realized what he was doing and ceased, aghast. A soul-wrenching sob tore from his lips and was carried on the sluggish breeze.
He heard a snort and grabbed the Hawken, his misery curtailed by the realization he might be in great peril. Surging upright, he spun and was astounded to see that the dust cloud had for the most part dispersed. He could see the prairie and the aftermath of the surround, and he could scarcely credit the testimony of his own eyes. It was as if Ares, the ancient Greek god of war had paid the earth a visit and waged battle with a horde of shaggy brutes. The prairie resembled a battlefield. No—it was a battlefield, and the soil in many places now bore a scarlet tinge. Scores of buffalo lay dying or dead, many in pools of blood. Dozens of wounded animals staggered in a vain attempt to run or stood with red rivulets pouring from their wounds. Here and there were fallen horses. And mingled among the animals were the bodies of five Shoshones.
Five Shoshones and one Oglala.
~*~
Three weeks later.
“I am sorry to see you go,” Spotted Bull said sincerely. “We have enjoyed your company.”
Nate, astride the stallion, hefted the Hawken and looked down at his host. Beside Spotted Bull stood Morn
ing Dove, her fine new robe over her slender shoulders. A few feet to their rear, next to the lodge entrance, was Willow Woman. “We can never thank you enough for your kindness and hospitality,” he said. “I hope you will permit us to return the favor one day by paying us a visit at our wooden lodge.”
“We will,” Spotted Bull promised. “I would like to see your unusual lodge for myself. Perhaps then I will understand why a man would build a lodge that must always stay in the same spot.”
“Come whenever you want,” Winona said. She sat on the mare, Stalking Coyote in a cradleboard strapped to her back. “Our home is your home.”
Nate smiled, wheeled the stallion, and grasped the lead to their pack animal securely in his left hand. He rode southward, winding among the lodges, and didn’t speak again until they had left the village a good distance behind. “At last,” he said in English, glancing at Winona. “I like your kin and all, but we should have left a week or so ago.”
“My aunt insisted that we stay a little longer. How could we refuse?”
“Are you upset that we’re leaving now?” Nate asked. “We can turn around and go back, if you want.”
Winona shook her head. “No. I am as eager to reach our cabin as you are.”
“Are you certain?” Nate pressed her, well aware of her tendency to keep things that upset her to herself so she wouldn’t in turn upset him.
“Yes,” Winona said. “It is well we left now, before Willow Woman had a chance to talk to you.”
“Willow Woman?” Nate said in surprise. “What did she want to talk to me about?”
“She wanted to ask you a question,” Winona said, her tone betraying a degree of annoyance. “And I would rather not discuss it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have already decided what your answer to her would be,” Winona said, gazing straight ahead.
“That’s nice of you,” Nate said, grinning. “Then there isn’t any harm in telling me, is there?”
Winona looked at him and pursed her lips. “All right. I will let you know, only because you will pester me forever if I do not.”
Wilderness: Vengeance Trail/ Death Hunt (A Wilderness Western Book 4) Page 28
