Wilderness Giant Edition 3 Page 11

  Zach put two and two together and deduced the pretty woman was Bird Rattler’s wife, the skinny ones their kids. White Grass nudged him, indicating they should follow. Zach couldn’t imagine where they were going or why he wasn’t bristling with arrows. But he wasn’t one to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. In an attempt to win over the older man, he asked, “Are you a chief like Bird Rattler, sir?”

  White Grass straightened with pride. “I watch Beaver Bundle.”

  Although Zach did not have the slightest idea what that meant, he nodded and said, “It sounds like a great honor, sir.”

  “Greatest, Stalking Coyote.”

  Zach gawked. “How do you know my name?”

  “Bird Rattler tell.” White Grass snickered. “Name wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Should be Big Little Horse Thief.”

  That made no sense to Zach either but he kept quiet and checked to see how many warriors were trailing them to prevent him from escaping. To his consternation there were only a dozen or so little children, some so young they waddled like ducks. On seeing him turn, they stopped, some of the very smallest cowering in fear. Shocked, Zach smiled to show them he meant no harm and a few made bold to smile in return.

  Bird Rattler halted in front of a lodge so large there was no denying his status as a man of great prominence. He paused to survey the encampment and his family scooted inside ahead of him. Then he slowly entered.

  White Grass beckoned Zach to do likewise but Zach balked. The girl had been friendly enough, but he had no idea what her father had in store for him. Given his theft of the horse, he wouldn’t put it past Bird Rattler to bind him and hold him prisoner until the Blackfeet dragged him out to scalp him.

  “Hackeryking?” White Grass said, jerking a thumb at the entrance. “Go.”

  “The horse.” Zach said absently, not knowing how to explain and saying that which was uppermost on his mind.

  “Horse?” The old warrior’s brow knit, then he grinned and shifted to point.

  Zach looked. Beyond the lodge grazed several fine mounts, among them the very brown stallion he had stolen. It must have come straight home, he realized, and wished that he owned such a superbly loyal animal.

  “Go,” White Grass repeated.

  Swallowing his anxiety, Zach stooped and opened the flap. Through his mind ran the rules of proper lodge etiquette as taught to him by his mother: always go to the right and wait for the host to seat you, never walk between the fire and anyone else, and never talk unless asked to do so by someone older.

  Zach straightened and felt oddly surprised at what he saw. The interior was spotless and neatly arranged, as fine a lodge as their own when they spent time with his mother’s people. On the insulating lining hung a bow and quiver, a war shield, a medicine bag, and other things. Along the curved sides were stacked blankets, parfleches, rolled up buffalo-hide bedding, a sewing bag, a cooking bag, and other household gear.

  Bird Rattler had taken the seat of the host toward the rear, behind the small fire that filled the lodge with the fragrance of burning wood. His wife and daughter were to his left, preparing a meal. The skinny boy sat on his father’s right, giving Zach an oddly puzzled look.

  “Come,” Bird Rattler signed. “You are welcome in my lodge.”

  Zach shuffled forward, suspecting a trick of some kind. These people were being so kind, so downright friendly, they couldn’t possibly be Blackfeet. He sat where indicated and White Grass sank down beside him.

  “Chief want talk you. I help.”

  “What does he want to palaver about?”

  “You.”

  Zach looked at the chief and would have quaked at the stern visage fixed on him had he not detected the warm glow of genuine kindness in the Blackfoot’s lively dark eyes. He smiled—he seemed to be doing a lot of that this day—and received a sympathetic smile in return. “What about me?”

  White Grass and Bird Rattler talked for some time, the chief doing most of it and the older man grunting agreement. Finally White Grass tapped Zach’s knee.

  “Hackeryking, chief say you much good rider.”

  “I wasn’t doing much actual riding,” Zach confessed. “Most of the time I was hanging on for dear life.”

  As White Grass would do throughout the subsequent conversation, he translated for the benefit of Bird Rattler, then said, “Chief say you good fighter at Elk At Dawn.”

  For a moment Zach was confused, thinking Elk At Dawn must have been one of the warriors in the chief’s party by the river. “I remember poking my spear at Cream Bear,” he said, “but I don’t know any of the others.”

  White Grass stared at him, then extended an arm toward the skinny boy. “Elk At Dawn.”

  Zach faced the chief’s son, who still wore his puzzled expression. “I am pleased to meet you,” Zach signed. “I hope I did not hurt anyone when you caught me.”

  Elk At Dawn replied fluidly, “You fought like a mountain lion but no one was hurt.” He paused. “We were hunting rabbits. Catching you was much more exciting. We will be the envy of all the boys.”

  Zach wanted to say more but the old warrior touched his elbow to get his attention.

  “Chief want know where family? Want no double tongue.”

  “I don’t rightly know where they are,” Zach said, a lump forming in his throat. “There was an awful storm and we were separated. I kept expecting them to come after me but they never did.” He bowed his head to hide the moisture seeping into his eyes. ‘‘That’s not like them at all. My pa would move mountains to find me. He’s the best pa anyone ever had.”

  “Other brothers, sisters you have?”

  “No. Not yet. I might soon, though. Ma is in the family way.”

  “Where you live, Hackeryking?”

  “The Rockies,” Zach said. It occurred to him the warrior might not be familiar with the name, so he elaborated by pointing westward and saying, “In the big mountains where the sun sets. Do you know the ones I mean?”

  “Yes. Many, many sleeps away,” White Grass said thoughtfully, adding, “Too far. Too far.”

  “Too far for what?”

  The old man ignored the question. “You good son? Listen father, listen mother?”

  “Of course. I love them,” Zach said. He glanced at Bird Rattler, who was studying him. “Say, why all this interest in my family? Why does the chief want to know what kind of son I am?”

  White Grass laid a wizened hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You be happy, Hackeryking. Never see mountains again. Never see mother, see father. But Bird Rattler like you, like you very much.” He gestured at the inside of the lodge. “This be new home. Bird Rattler want make you his own son.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nate King slept fitfully his first night in the Pawnee village. He tossed and turned on the bedding lent him by White Calf, deeply troubled about his family and yearning to go to them. By morning he had another problem. He began itching terribly, leading him to suspect the bedding was ridden with lice.

  White Calf slept soundly, snoring loud enough to rouse the dead. He had shown up at the lodge about ten o’clock and profusely apologized for taking so long. There had been an important council in the chief’s lodge, he’d signed, and he’d been obligated to attend. The medicine man had offered to cook a late meal but Nate had declined, the stench of the animal carcasses having totally ruined his appetite.

  Nate had demanded to know why a pair of warriors kept guard over the lodge. “Am I a friend or a prisoner?” he had signed. White Calf had assured him that his friendship was highly valued, and explained the two warriors were there to prevent anyone from badgering him.

  Shortly thereafter they had retired, but not before Nate insisted the disgusting remains be removed. His expression must have betrayed his sentiments because White Calf had apologized even more ardently than before and revealed the dead animals—or at least parts of them—had been used by White Calf in certain ceremonies. “But if they displease you,
Sky Walker,” the medicine man signed, “I will take them out and feed them to the village dogs.”

  It had done little good. Nate sat up and accidentally took a deep breath. The odor churned his stomach. It amazed him that the medicine man abided the smell on a daily basis without complaint. Throwing off the smelly buffalo robe he had used to cover himself, he stood, staring up through the ventilation hole at the faint tinge of pink in the sky. Dawn was not far off. Once the sun was up, he would ask to see the chief. By noon, if all went well, he would be on his way to find his loved ones.

  Taking the flintlock, Nate slipped out through the doorway while the medicine man snored on. He expected to find guards but there were none. Nor, in fact, did he see anyone moving about yet in the village, not even dogs.

  This was his chance! Nate hastened around to the back of the lodge. Undergrowth and a few trees were all that separated him from the river. He crept through the brush until he could see the gently gurgling water. It would be child’s play, he reasoned, to enter the river and follow it westward for a few miles, then head out across the prairie. The Pawnees would be unable to trail him, and if they did scour the river banks it would take hours for them to find his tracks, if they did at all. His only regret was that there were no horses nearby so he could steal one. He considered going back into the village after a mount but decided not to tempt fate.

  Nate dashed to the water’s edge and was set to plunge his foot in when a low cry to his left drew his attention to a tableau that froze him in place.

  A young, lovely Pawnee, an early riser, had ventured to the river to wash a cooking pot and utensils. She was on her knees, the pot in one hand, a tin ladle she had no doubt received in trade with white men in the other. Her features were ghostly pale from fright. As well they should be.

  At that point the river narrowed. Standing on a gravel bar opposite the young woman was a large black bear bearing a white blaze on its chest. Ordinarily black bears avoided humans and were considered nowhere near as dangerous as their grizzled cousins. Occasionally, however, there were exceptions, and this proved to be one.

  As Nate set eyes on the bear, it left the gravel bar and started across the river toward the petrified woman. All she had to do was turn and race into the village. Her shouts would bring warriors on the run and they would make short work of the interloper with their lances and arrows if it had the audacity to pursue her. But she was too scared. She gaped, like one mesmerized.

  The bear rumbled deep in its chest.

  Heedless of the consequences to himself, Nate called out in Shoshone, “Run, girl! Run!” He could not stand there and allow her to be slain, which was exactly the fate she would suffer unless she regained her senses and got out of there. The Pawnee, though, didn’t seem to hear him. She squatted there, easy prey for the hungry bear.

  Nate looked back at the village, hoping against hope others were awake and someone else had noticed the woman’s plight. The spaces between the lodges were vacant, and not a single wisp of smoke curled over a solitary dwelling. “Damn lazy tribe,” he muttered, drawing the flintlock.

  By now the bear was halfway across the river. Emboldened by its quarry’s lack of movement, it surged faster, plowing through the water like a great hairy boat.

  “Run!” Nate bellowed, but the young woman might have been deaf for all the effect his yell had. She only had eyes for the bear, which would be the last sight she saw unless something was done.

  Veering toward her, Nate aimed the flintlock. He would rather have had the Hawken, or any rifle for that matter. Pistols were fine for small game and men at short range but woefully inadequate for larger animals. Still, the .55-caliber smoothbore packed a hefty wallop. He sighted on the bear’s head behind the ear, and when the huge black brute came within a dozen feet of the woman, he fired.

  The blast galvanized the woman where nothing else had. She started, jumped erect, and fled into the village, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  At the shot the bear crumpled, but only momentarily. Rising, it shook itself, roared, and glanced around for the source of its terrible pain.

  “Oh, hell,” Nate said. He went to flee, then realized he couldn’t possibly hope to outrun the bear and if it pulled him down from behind he was finished. Nor was there time to reload.

  The black bear roared again, and charged.

  Tossing the flintlock onto the bank, Nate drew both his tomahawk and his butcher knife. He had no choice but to fight. And as he’d learned from hard experience, the surest way to win a fight was to take it to the enemy and not wait for the enemy to come to him. So, voicing the war whoop of a Shoshone warrior, he raised his weapons and sprang to meet the bear.

  The beast was almost to the shore. It drew up short at this unexpected development; rarely did prey turn on it. Surprised, and not thinking clearly due to its head wound, it reared on its hind legs to intimidate its prey with its bulk and size.

  Nate came to the edge of the water and launched himself into the air. Tingling from head to toe with primal blood lust, he arced the tomahawk downward with all his strength while simultaneously thrusting the butcher knife outward. Both scored, but so did the bear, swinging a huge paw that clipped him on the shoulder and sent him flying head over heels into the river.

  Cold, murky water closed over Nate. His mouth had been open when he went under, allowing water to gush down his throat. Sputtering and gasping, flailing wildly, he managed to break the surface and suck in needed air.

  Except the bear was there, rearing like a monster of old, mouth agape in a hideous snarl, blood pouring from its split skull. It swiped at him with startling speed.

  Nate ducked under the first blow, was nicked by the second, its long claws ripping his buckskin shirt wide open and slicing into the skin. His moccasins found purchase, enabling him to stand. The water level rose as high as his waist, just high enough to impede his movements as he darted to the right to evade another slashing strike. Claws whisked by his ear so close his hair was fanned by the air.

  The black bear roared once more, then dropped on all fours. Lips pulled back to expose its glistening teeth, it closed in, but warily. It had learned its lesson well. The agony searing its head and chest had taught it that the two-legged creature, although puny in size, was capable of inflicting great pain.

  Nate hefted both weapons while back-pedaling. He needed an opening so he could deliver a lethal blow but the bear had its head low, chin brushing the surface. Thinking he could anger the brute into exposing its neck, he feinted, flicking the butcher knife. The black bear jerked its head aside the first time but was slower the next, and by the merest fluke the tip of the knife seared into an eyeball.

  A tremendous roar that seemed to shake the trees at the water’s edge issued from the bear’s throat as it dabbed a paw at its now ravaged eye.

  Shouts had broken out in the village but Nate dared not take his gaze from the bear to see if the Pawnees were rushing to his aid. Not that he expected them to. He was an outsider, a strange white man. And from the looks they had given him the day before, a lot of them would be all too happy to see him rubbed out.

  The bear suddenly fixed its sole good eye on the source of its torment. If it was possible for a bear’s face to reflect raw, savage hatred, this bear’s did as it moved in for the kill.

  Nate twisted aside as razor teeth crunched together in the very space he had occupied. He brought the tomahawk flashing down, catching the bear above the ruined eye, the keen edge biting deep—and holding fast. Nate tried to wrench the tomahawk loose but it refused to budge. The bear, snarling horribly, rammed into him, its shoulder slamming full into his torso.

  Bowled over, losing his grip on the tomahawk, Nate found himself being pushed under the water by the bear’s enormous weight. In desperation he reached up, looping his arm around the animal’s thick neck, and clung on for dear life. The black bear gave a violent shake to dislodge him but Nate gripped its hair firmly, resolving to hold on no matter what it took.

/>   Nate was in the river up to his shoulders. His legs bumped the bear’s as the beast swung back and forth, seeking to hurl him loose. Belatedly he realized he still clasped the butcher knife, and with the thought came action. He plunged the long blade into the underside of the bear’s neck, burying it to the hilt. The bear went into a frenzy, bawling and pawing at him but unable to hook its claws in his body.

  Water poured over Nate’s shoulders and splashed on his face as the bear whipped this way and that and snapped its head upward and sideways. All the while Nate kept stabbing, over and over and over again. Blood spattered his cheeks, his throat, his shoulders. Soon the water itself turned crimson.

  The bear reared back, trying to stand. Nate’s body served as an anchor, dragging its head back down. It kept trying to rip him open but its claws could not find their mark.

  Nate must have stabbed the bear twenty times. His arm was growing heavy, his shoulder aching. Given the alternative if he stopped, he continued to stab, stab, stab, making a scarlet sieve of the brute’s throat. Suddenly the black bear whirled and barreled through the water at a swift, lumbering pace, as if it had a destination in mind. Nate’s feet scraped the bottom of the river, then his legs, his thighs. Seconds later he was being dragged over dry ground and he realized the bear was on terra firma.

  And here the bear could get at him. It drove the back of a shaggy paw into Nate’s stomach, knocking him loose and sending him sprawling. Dazed, Nate sat up. He saw the bear rear, saw its paws lift to cave in his fragile human head. Scrambling backwards, he attempted to escape but his slick hands slipped and he fell as the bear swung.

  No, the bear wasn’t swinging; it was falling. Shoving up, Nate dived to the left but was a fraction of an instant too slow. The black bear crashed down, its body hitting his lower legs, smacking him flat and pinning him to the ground.