The clearing was in the shape of a half-moon. Dense vegetation bordered it. Located barely ten arrows’ flights from the village, it was reached by a narrow trail.
Hunumanima was in the lead, his long green robe flowing about him. Behind him came not just Degamawaku and Tenikawaku, but the entire family.
Wakumassee had insisted on coming. He loved his children dearly and was greatly troubled by his son’s plight. The talk of a life for a life had prompted him to go to Hunumanima, with Tihi at his side, and request that the whole family be permitted to go along.
“Stilljoy only expects me and your two oldest,” Hunumanima had reminded him.
“Reverend Stilljoy will not object,” Wakumassee had predicted. “He and I have had many talks. He calls me his good friend.”
Hunumanima was aware of that. “You also speak the white tongue well.”
“There is much I have not yet learned,” Wakumassee had said modestly.
“You know more of their language than I do,” Hunumanima had said. “Faugh! How strange their tongue is. In our language one word means one thing, but in theirs, one word may mean many things. And that sound they make with their tongues pressed to the back of their teeth, or the one where they puff like a teased snake. Their tongue is different from any we know.”
“Everything about the whites is different,” Wakumassee had said.
Tihikanima had done something she rarely did when her husband and father were talking. She interrupted. “So it is all right, then, for us to accompany you?”
“You may come,” Hunumanima had said. “But you may not bring weapons. I gave Stilljoy my pledge we would not be armed.”
Now, winding along the trail, Wakumassee looked forward to talking to the reverend. If anyone could help them, Stilljoy was the one. Like him, Stilljoy was a man of peace.
“I will be happy when we have worked things out with the whites,” Tihi commented, so softly that only Wakumassee heard.
“As will I, wife.”
Twisting, Tihikanima glanced at their son. Dega seemed to be more calm than any of them. “We will not let the whites harm you,” she assured him.
“I will accept what comes, Mother.” Degamawaku was a product of Nansusequa customs, and those customs dictated people must take responsibility for their acts even when the consequences were not pleasant.
Tenikawaku, hiking behind him and holding little Miki’s hand, had a different opinion. “You must not give up your life.”
“The decision is not mine,” Dega said. “It is Hunumanima’s. I will do what he thinks is best for our people.”
Wakumassee overheard and was torn. On the one hand he was proud of his son’s maturity and devotion to their people, and on the other, the thought of the whites demanding a life for a life terrified him. He must accept Hunumanima’s final decision, whatever it was, but he did not know if he could hand over his son to be killed.
Dega, despite what he had just said, was unsure if he would meekly submit to white justice. Losing his temper was a lapse, yes. More specifically, it was the degree to which he had lost it, since the Nansusequa prided themselves on their self-control. But did that merit his death?
Dega cast the question from his mind. He was weary of thinking about it. He focused on the forest he loved so much, listening for the warble of songbirds and the chatter of scampering squirrels. He heard the rustle of the breeze, nothing more, and realized how uncommonly still the forest had become. In his surprise, he slowed, and Teni nearly bumped into him.
“Are you all right, brother?”
“Yes,” Dega said. But a vague unease had settled over him. He knew the workings of the forest as he knew the workings of his own body, and when the woods were this quiet, it was a bad omen.
“We are almost there,” Hunumanima announced.
Only by a supreme force of will did Dega compose himself so that when they entered the clearing, his face was as inscrutable as the air. It was well he did. Things were not as they should be.
In the center of the clearing waited Reverend Stilljoy. A stiff, stern-visaged man with a hook nose and a cleft chin, he was dressed in a black coat, black vest, black pants and black boots. His only concession to color was his white shirt. As always, he held what whites called a book, one that was as dear to Reverend Stilljoy as life itself. On seeing them emerge from the woods, Stilljoy smiled. But Dega noted that the smile did not touch his eyes.
The reverend was not alone. Three other whites were with him but stood well back, next to their horses. Their clothes and hats were homespun. One was a burly slab with bushy brows. Another had a sandy mane and beard. The third was clean shaven.
That the reverend had broken the agreement and brought others was troubling enough. Even more troubling were the rifles and pistols the white men carried.
Dega came to a stop and glanced at his father, who had done the same. But not Hunumanima. Their leader crossed to Stilljoy and extended a hand in greeting, white-man fashion.
“Friend,” Hunumanima said in English.
Stilljoy’s smile seemed carved in place. “Hunu!” he said amiably. “It is good to see you again.”
One of the men by the horses, the burly one, made a sound that resembled a duck being strangled.
If Hunu heard, he made no sign of it. Motioning at the ground, he said, “After you, friend.”
“Thank you, Hunu.” Reverend Stilljoy sank down cross-legged, the large book in his lap.
Dega thought it odd that Stilljoy did not glance at him or his family. The other whites were staring, though, particularly at him.
“Not alone,” Hunu said to Stilljoy.
The severe white man in black jabbed a thin finger. “You brought some extras, too, I see.” He looked up and blinked. “Waku? Is that you? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you. What brings you here? Are you serving as interpreter?”
Waku boldly stepped forward. “I not come speak tongue.” He motioned. “I come for son, Degamawaku.”
“What does—?” Reverend Stilljoy began, and stopped. “Oh.” He cast a furtive glance at the three whites by the horses. “So he is yours, is he? I don’t believe I was ever introduced. Tihi, I recall. These others must be your daughters.”
“Yes,” Waku said, and translated for the benefit of his family. Then, to Hunu in the Nansusequa tongue, “May I?”
“You may.”
Waku adopted the cross-legged posture. “We need help, friend Stilljoy. We come say why whites die.” He immediately repeated what he had said in his own tongue for his family’s benefit.
Reverend Stilljoy grew grim. “I must say, it was quite a shock. I was under the impression your people are a peace-loving tribe.”
“We much like peace,” Waku assured him.
“Much,” Hunumanima echoed.
“Then why did your son murder three white men for no reason other than the color of their skin?”
The accusation shocked Waku and Hunu. Waku was the first to find his voice. “That not true, friend Stilljoy. Son not hates whites.” Again he translated so his family could follow their conversation.
Over by the horses, the burly man with the bushy eyebrows unleashed a string of harsh invective, ending with, “I knew it! I told you they would deny it, the stinking heathens!”
Reverend Stilljoy shifted to glance at the other in disapproval. “What did I tell you, Arthur, about speaking out of turn? We must keep them here, remember, and not have them walk off in a huff.” He smiled thinly at Hunu and Waku. “Please forgive him. His son was one of those murdered.”
“What mean murder?” Hunu asked.
“Murder is when someone kills someone else wrongly,” Reverend Stilljoy explained. He bobbed his chin at Dega. “As Waku’s son did when he murdered Byram Forge, Gulliver Hundicott and Robert Wayne.”
Waku translated, then said, “My son not do wrong, friend Stilljoy. My son help sister.”
“I don’t understand,” the reverend said. “Helped her how?”
<
br /> “The dead men chase her,” Waku related, with a gesture at Teni. “They catch her. They try—” Waku could not bring himself to say it.
“Are you saying Byram Forge and the others had unscrupulous designs?” Reverend Stilljoy was incredulous.
“If that mean they want harm her, yes,” Waku said, seeking the right words from his limited store of English. “They very bad. They try touch her.”
Arthur Forge was the same shade as a beet. “That’s a damned lie!” he roared, coming toward them. “Let me at them! I’ll end this nonsense.”
Again Stilljoy glanced sharply at him. “Must I keep reminding you? I sympathize with your loss. But you agreed to let me handle this, remember?”
“You’re too damned nice to these savages,” Arthur Forge grumbled, “and that’s a fact. But go ahead. With what’s at stake, I can afford to be patient.”
Dega listened to his father’s translation without truly comprehending. It did not help that his father was unsure of the meaning of some of the words, and had to guess.
Tihikanima was studying the faces of the whites. On her visits to New Albion to trade, she had found that their expressions often said as much as their words, and she was troubled by the expressions she saw on the whites here. There was hatred on the faces of the three near the horses, and flashes of regret from her husband’s friend, Reverend Stilljoy. She edged closer, hoping to catch her husband’s attention.
Waku was speaking. “Please. Listen to son. Decide which true.”
“Very well,” Reverend Stilljoy said, folding his hands on top of the book. “Proceed, Dega, if you please.” Dega did not like having his familiar name used by a white. Only Nansusequa were entitled to do that.
“Tell him, my son,” Waku directed. “Do not leave anything out. I will say what you say, in his tongue.”
Dega related the event exactly as it had happened. His father then asked his sister to do the same.
The whole while, Reverend Stilljoy listened attentively, his features offering no clue as to whether he believed them or not. With the other whites, it was easier to tell; their scowls and muttering showed they did not believe a word.
Teni finished and stepped back.
Reverend Stilljoy sat as if carved from wood for so long, the patience of the waiting Nansusequa was strained. Finally Hunu coughed.
“What say you, friend?”
A heavy sigh fluttered from Stilljoy’s thin lips. “There is so much to say I do not know where to begin. Perhaps with an apology. I am sorry, truly sorry, for all of your sakes. But what must be, must be.”
“Pardon?” Waku said.
“It is your word against that of the man who escaped,” Reverend Stilljoy said.
“Dega, Teni speak true.”
“So you say. But Stanley Bendis tells a different story. He says that he and his friends were minding their own business when your son attacked them without any provocation.”
“You not believe?” Hunu asked.
“Were it up to me, I might be inclined to accept your version,” Reverend Stilljoy said. “But it is not up to me.”
“Who then?” Waku pressed him.
“The leading men of New Albion have agreed on what must be done. All I can do is pray for your souls.”
“Pardon?” Waku said again. He was troubled at how the other three whites were fingering their rifles.
“Do you know what an object lesson is?” Reverend Stilljoy asked.
“No,” Waku admitted.
“It is when you punish someone so others will not make the same mistake.” Stilljoy bit his lower lip. “I regret I must inform you that it has been decided to make an object lesson of the Nansusequa.”
Waku grew alarmed. “What this mean?”
“Even as we speak, your village is being surrounded. Before this day is done, the Nansusequa will be no more.”
Three
Shock seized Evelyn King. She saw Niwot stagger, saw him clutch at the hardwood shaft that had transfixed his neck, saw his shock and bewilderment. Blood gushed from his mouth as, with awful gurgling and choking sounds, he sank into oblivion.
Evelyn screamed. She emptied her lungs in a shriek of sheer mortal horror. It did not occur to her that she might be the bowman’s next target until a glittering shaft whizzed past her neck, missing by inches only because she had inadvertently taken a step to one side. Evelyn spun toward the woods to the west of the cabin, her shriek dying. Another shaft came streaking out of the foliage. This one she evaded by throwing herself to the ground.
That there was more than one attacker became evident when three arrows flashed toward her at once. The arrows were in midflight when Evelyn heaved erect and bolted for the door. In her haste she tripped. Down she went, hard. She glanced up. The shafts were descending toward her. Scrambling to the right, she sought to avoid them. One thudded into the earth next to her arm, another overshot her. The third was going to strike. Frantic, Evelyn flung her legs wide and the arrow sliced into her buckskin dress between her knees, missing her legs but pinning her dress to the ground. In her relief, she lay there grinning idiotically. It was a mistake.
More arrows came arcing out of the woods.
Then a rifle banged, and her father and brother were there. Zach lowered his Hawken and snatched at a pistol while Nate bent and ripped the arrow from Evelyn’s dress with a powerful wrench of his broad shoulders.
Nate had thought for sure his daughter was hit. When he heard her scream, his breath had caught in his throat. The next instant, instinct took over and he hurled himself to her aid. Now, holding on to the arrow, he scooped Evelyn into his other arm and spun toward the cabin and safety.
Zach fired his pistol. He could not see the attackers. They were too well hidden. He was firing to cause them to hug their cover and give his father the precious seconds Nate needed to get Evelyn inside.
Just as Nate reached the doorway, Winona rushed out. She had her own rifle, and, seeing her son shoot into the trees, she did the same. Nate went on past.
At a gesture from Zach, Winona backed into the cabin and immediately began to reload.
A moment later Zach was inside and he slammed the door shut. Running to the window, he sought some sign of the hostiles. His gaze happened to alight on Niwot. “Damn,” he said aloud, and set to reloading his weapons.
Nate sat Evelyn and the arrow on the table, and placed his big hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Pa,” Evelyn said hollowly, struggling to come to grips with Niwot’s death and the attempt to slay her. It had all happened so fast.
“Stay put,” Nate directed, and darted to where his Hawken was propped against the wall near the door. From a peg on the wall he took his ammo pouch and powder horn and slung them across his chest.
“Who do you think it is?” Winona asked while sliding the ramrod from its housing. “The Blackfeet, maybe? Or the Bloods?” They had clashed with both tribes on several occasions.
“There hasn’t been any sign of a war party anywhere near our valley since we got here,” Nate said. He joined his son in peering out. “Anything?”
“Not a lick of movement,” Zach said. “I wonder how many there are.”
“At least three,” Evelyn informed him.
Winona finished reloading and noticed the arrow. Picking it up, she examined it closely as she crossed to the window. “I have never seen one like this, husband. Have you?”
Nate had forgotten about it. He studied the shaft, his brow knitting in perplexity. No two tribes fashioned arrows exactly alike. Some used ash. Some used white elm. Some used hickory or mulberry. Some tribes cut grooves on their arrows; others did not. The markings, too, were always different. The upshot was that a savvy frontiersman could tell which tribe had made a given arrow simply by looking at it. Nate was familiar with the arrows used by every tribe in the northern Rockies and plains, but he had never seen an arrow like this one. He said as much.
“A new tribe?” Winona s
aid. “From where?”
Nate had a hunch. Their new valley was situated deep in the mountains where no white man had ever gone before. Few Indians, either. To the west, over the next range, lay thousands of square miles of unexplored country, virgin wilderness like that which existed when the first human set foot on the North American continent. He had been to the top of the range and found a pass through to the next valley. Twice he had spied tendrils of smoke in the far distance, signifying a possible village. But he had not gone to investigate. Now he wished he had.
“Whoever they are, they made a mistake tangling with us,” Zach growled. “If they had harmed sis, I’d kill every last one.”
Evelyn was moved by the emotion in his voice. At moments like this she realized he truly did care for her. “What about the others?” she asked.
Zach turned. “Other Indians?”
“No, stupid. Your wife, and Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman? Won’t they have heard the shots and come running?”
Worry bit into Zach. That was exactly what they would do. His wife would be an easy target for the lurkers in the trees. “I’m going out,” he announced, and made for the door.
“Hold on,” Nate said, taking hold of his arm. “They might be waiting for us to show ourselves.”
“I don’t care,” Zach said. “Lou will be here any moment.” The mere thought of her being harmed was enough to turn his blood to ice. Louisa was everything to him. He loved her so deeply, sometimes it hurt. He would lie in bed at night, watching her sleep, in awe of her beauty, and amazed by the fact that she had chosen him out of all the men there were.
Nate saw his son’s face darken. “Don’t be rash.” He was all too aware of the rages to which Zach was prone in the savage heat of a fight. Zach would go berserk and wouldn’t stop until all his foes were dead. “We’ll hear her. Then we will run out together to warn her.”
“I can’t wait, Pa,” Zach insisted, shrugging loose. “The war party might be attacking my cabin.”
“We haven’t heard any shots,” Nate said, but he was wasting his breath. His son was already opening the door.
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