Wilderness Double Edition 11 Page 23

  “How does Fetches Water feel about him?”

  “She never told me. She has always been a quiet girl who keeps her innermost thoughts to herself.” The devoted father smiled wanly. “But then, most women do, don’t they? Long ago I learned that women are much better at keeping secrets than men are. And I think I know why that is.”

  “This I would like to hear.”

  “It is simple. Women protect their hearts with the same devotion a man will protect his loved ones or his best war horse. Women place more value on that which takes place inside of them, while men place more value on things they can see, touch, and hold.”

  Winona grinned. “You are very wise—for a man.”

  They both laughed lightly, and for a few moments the father’s sadness was gone. But it returned the instant he stopped. He wearily rubbed his eyes, then stifled a yawn.

  “If I do not get some rest soon, I will not be good for anything. But I am so worried about my daughter that I can hardly eat or sleep.”

  Sunrise was over an hour off. Winona put a hand on his shoulder and offered, “If you want to get some rest now, I will stand watch for you.”

  “I would like to, but what would the others think?”

  “They know how hard you have been pushing yourself,” Winona noted. “I will be right back.”

  She fetched the Hawken and Evelyn and perched on the stump with the cradleboard across her legs. The Hawken she leaned within easy reach. “There,” she signed. “I am all set. Enjoy your rest.”

  The Crow studied her features before moving off. “I am old enough to be your father,” he signed in parting, “but I tell you now that if I were twenty winters younger I would do my best to steal you away from Grizzly Killer.”

  Tiny fingers of flame were all that remained of the fire, casting a feeble glow. Bull Standing With Cow curled up next to it and pulled a blanket up over him.

  It was the quiet time of the night, when the nocturnal predators were bedding down for the upcoming day and the daytime animals were not yet awake.

  Winona rested her hands on her knees and listened to the whisper of the wind in the tall trees. Alone with her thoughts, she could not help but think of Nate. Was he still alive? Something deep within her assured her that he was, but that same something told her that he was in dire danger. She yearned to be with him.

  Presently a few birds chirped, and it wasn’t long afterward that the woods were filled with the avian chorus that always preceded the dawn.

  Evelyn stirred but went back to sleep. Winona contented herself with holding her daughter close and shutting her mind to the apprehension gnawing at her insides.

  A thin streak of pink appeared to the east. Winona turned her head to admire its brilliant hue and suddenly sensed that someone else was close by. Placing a hand on her pistol, she shifted.

  He Dog had the look of an unkempt mongrel in a foul temper. He was unarmed, but his big fists were clenched as if to pound on anyone who dared antagonize him.

  “Why do you stare at me?” Winona demanded. “What do you want?”

  The warrior sneered at her. “What is wrong, woman? Do I make you uncomfortable? Does it fill you with fear? It should. Because before this is over with, you and that man of yours will regret treating me as you have.” He nodded toward the plain. “Where is he, woman? Why is he taking so long? Is this a trick on your part to keep us from saving Fetches Water?”

  The idea was so preposterous that Winona almost laughed. “Were you hit on the head by a falling tree?”

  “Do not mock me,” He Dog warned.

  “Then do not say stupid things,” Winona retorted. “Why would we want to stop you from rescuing her?”

  “Your man is white, and whites are never to be trusted. They do not think like normal people, so who can say why they do what they do?”

  “You talk in circles.”

  The warrior advanced but halted when she started to draw the flintlock. “Know this, woman. I intend to make Fetches Water my wife one day. Nothing will stop me from freeing her, not the Lakotas, not your husband, and certainly not you. If the mighty Grizzly Killer has not shown up by the time the sun is straight overhead, I am leaving to find her.”

  Winona watched him go off into the bushes. The day had gotten off to a wonderful start, and she feared that it would only get worse before it got better.

  ~*~

  A jostling motion revived Nathaniel King. That, and a knot of pain on the back of his head that throbbed insistently. His mouth felt as dry as a desert and his stomach was queasy. He became aware that he was lying on his stomach and that his wrists and ankles were bound.

  Nate opened his eyes. He had been thrown over a sorrel being led by the Lakota warrior skilled with a rope. Other warriors rode on both sides of him, one leading his stallion and the pinto. They were talking quietly among themselves, completely ignoring him.

  Dawn was at hand. Nate figured the band had been riding most of the night. They were climbing a grass-covered hill, and when they came to the top, they reined up.

  Below lay a wide river glistening greenish-blue in the morning light. Shimmering cottonwoods, drooping willows and sturdy oaks fringed both banks. To the west a smaller river merged with the wider waterway, their junction dotted by gravel bars and tiny isolated islands of vegetation. To the east, the pristine main river wound off across the prairie until lost in the golden haze.

  Nate knew where he was. The wide river was the Platte, the smaller river the South Platte. Which meant that the enormous village spread out between the two rivers had to be the encampment of the Oglala Lakotas.

  Hundreds of lodges were arranged in traditional fashion, all with their entrances facing eastward. From many wafted tendrils of smoke. Dozens of women chatted at the rivers while filling water skins. A number of children and dogs were abroad. It was an idyllic setting, deceptively so since Nate knew the type of reception he would receive.

  Two members of the returning band fired off rifles or fusees while others shouted and screeched.

  Tepee flaps were thrown wide and people poured out to greet the newcomers. The women hurried from the rivers while the children ran to the edge of the camp.

  Nate had witnessed the same event many times in Shoshone villages. Whenever warriors returned in triumph, they liked to make a grand entrance. It was customary if they arrived late at night to wait until the next day to ride in.

  The returning Sioux formed into a long column with Nate at the center. Several had noticed he was awake, but they left him alone. He tried moving his arms and legs and soon gave it up as a lost cause.

  Amid much fanfare, the warriors descended. Onlookers pressed forward for a glimpse of Nate. The men were openly hostile, the women were filled with glee, while many of the children made bold to dash up to him and tug at his hair or his clothes. Dogs sniffed and growled.

  The Lakotas were much like Nate’s adopted people, the Shoshones, in that they lived in buffalo hide lodges, and in the same style of dress. The men favored moccasins, breechcloths and buckskin leggings; the women were partial to leather dresses with short sleeves. Many had donned heavy buffalo robes to ward off the morning chill.

  Generally speaking, the Lakotas were slightly smaller in stature than the Shoshones but much more muscular. They were a handsome people, and they carried themselves with dignity and pride.

  The band headed for a particularly large lodge.

  From within came a warrior who had more wrinkles than the prairie had blades of grass. His hair was streaked with gray and he walked with the aid of a long stick. Joining him were several middle-aged warriors, one sporting an elaborate headdress that hung almost down to the ground.

  The warrior who had roped Nate in the gully now slid off his horse. Taking hold of Nate’s arms, he pulled hard, dumping Nate at his feet. Nate instantly lashed out with both legs, striking the warrior in the shins. The man staggered but kept his footing and began to draw a knife. Only a stem word from the aged Lakota stopped
him.

  Two other warriors roughly hauled Nate upright. Another loosened the loops around his ankles so he could walk. He was shoved forward and tripped, landing on his knees in front of the tribal leaders.

  A groan behind him was the first inkling Nate had that he wasn’t the only captive. Gruff words were uttered. The next second Emmet Carter was pushed to the ground beside him.

  The greenhorn was in bad shape. His entire right side was caked with dry blood from the arrow wound in his arm. The arm itself was badly swollen. His face bore bruises and welts and there was a nasty gash on his left temple. Bent at the waist, his eyes shut tight, he pressed the stiff limb against his stomach and moaned loudly.

  Nate’s feelings about the man had not changed one bit, but he felt compelled to nudge Emmet’s elbow and say out of the corner of his mouth, “Quit bellyaching, Carter. You can’t show any weakness. The Lakotas respect courage, not cowardice.”

  The younger man looked up. “King!” he exclaimed in amazement. “Am I glad to see you! I thought that these son’s of bitches had lifted your scalp!”

  “They could have at any time,” Nate mentioned. “Which makes me suspect that they must have real special plans for us.”

  “What do we do? How do we get out of here?”

  Before Nate could reply, the man in the war bonnet took two steps and kicked the greenhorn in the sternum. Carter was knocked onto his side and cried out shrilly. He made a feeble effort to stand, but cringed when the warrior drew back a leg to kick him again.

  Some of the onlookers laughed.

  “Don’t just lie there!” Nate whispered. “Show them you have some gumption. Get up!”

  “And be kicked again?” Carter said. “No thank you. I’ll just stay out of their way until they lose interest in me.”

  “That will never happen,” Nate stated, and was suddenly clipped on the shoulder by the warrior with the rope. He rocked with the blow but stayed on his knees.

  A discussion broke out. The Lakota tongue was totally alien to Nate, so the best he could make out was that the older warriors were questioning the members of the war party about the greenhorn’s capture, and his. The pair who had tried to pull him from the stallion spoke at length, as did the warrior with the rope. Finally the tall warrior who had put a shaft into Carter stepped forward and addressed the throng.

  Nate didn’t like the way the Sioux were staring at Emmet. Carter had doubled over with his forehead on the dirt and consequently didn’t notice.

  The ancient warrior was the last to speak. Whatever he said was short and to the point. He motioned once at Nate, once at Carter.

  At a yell from the man in the headdress, the Lakotas converged. Iron hands gripped Nate and he was half-carried, half-dragged to a nearby lodge. Without ceremony he was tossed inside, smacking onto his shoulder and jarring his chin. Shrugging off the effects, Nate wriggled to the entrance and poked his head out the flap just as a terror-stricken scream wafted through the village.

  A space had been cleared to the west of the big lodge and was ringed by Oglalas. A couple of warriors were dragging Emmet Carter toward a thick pole that had been hastily imbedded in the earth. He shrieked and kicked and thrashed, to no avail. Within moments he had been lashed to the pole and stripped buck naked.

  Nate wanted to tear his eyes from the spectacle, but he could not. “I tried to warn him,” he said softly to himself.

  The warrior Carter had shot stepped through the crowd. He had been bandaged and carried his lance in his left hand. Trailing him was a chestnut which he mounted and rode to a point directly opposite Carter. Leveling the lance, he tucked it to his side.

  Carter had stopped struggling and gawked at the Lakota in wide-eyed horror. When the Sioux started toward him, he turned beet-red in the face, then strained against the ropes in a frenzy, blubbering like a madman the whole while.

  The Lakota picked up speed, gradually bringing the chestnut to a trot. As he neared the pole he leaned forward and extended the lance.

  Emmet Carter was practically beside himself. Wooooo!” he wailed. “No! No! No!”

  The Sioux were holding their collective breath in tense anticipation. The only sounds other than the greenhorn’s bawling cries were the rhythmic pounding of the horse’s flying hooves. They grew louder and louder as the horse went faster and faster and were punctuated by an ear-splitting screech of mortal anguish.

  The lance sheared into Emmet Carter at the exact spot where his lead ball had penetrated the warrior, the point bursting out his back. The warrior let go and rode on around the pole to the acclaim of the onlookers.

  Carter stiffened, then fainted. He hung as limp as a wet sack.

  Kneeing the chestnut in front of the captive, the Lakota bent and wrenched the lance out. Blood and gore spewed forth with it. A brief lull ensued as he rode back into the crowd and climbed down.

  Nate rested his cheek on the ground. His turn would be next, he was sure. He hoped that he would bear up better than Carter was doing. If, by some fluke, his family heard of his passing, he wanted them to be proud of him.

  A commotion signaled the arrival of a half-dozen bowmen, among them the tall warrior and several others who had been at White Bark Creek. A woman bearing a hollow gourd walked out to Carter and splashed water on his face to revive him.

  Carter took one look at the archers and went into hysterics. Disgust was evident on the faces of many of the Lakotas.

  First to notch a shaft was the tall Sioux. He took deliberate aim.

  Carter struggled mightily, swinging from side to side and shaking from head to toe in a futile bid to spoil the Lakota’s aim.

  With an audible twang the arrow streaked from the bow. The warrior had intentionally aimed low, and the arrow imbedded itself in the pole between Carter’s legs. Carter squealed like a stuck pig while the throng expressed their admiration of the warrior’s skill.

  The next warrior also missed. Likewise the third and the fourth. Each shaft, though, came a little closer to the figure at the pole than the shaft before it.

  Then it was the tall man’s turn again. Everyone, Carter included, knew that this time the warrior wouldn’t miss. Carter repeated his insanely frantic jig. He hollered and begged and cried.

  The arrow impaled him in the groin.

  Nate wished he could cover his ears so he would not have to hear Emmet’s pathetic high-pitched blubbering and whimpering. The man went on and on, quaking and weeping until even the Lakotas seemed to tire of hearing it and a second shaft imbedded itself in his left thigh. Another ripped into his right.

  Carter raised his tear-streaked face to the blue sky and beseeched, “Save me! Dear Lord, please don’t let this happen!”

  Nate would have given anything to have a rifle. He crawled back into the lodge and lay curled into a ball in the gloomy interior. The thunk-thunk-thunk of arrows striking home sounded like the steady beat of a small drum. In due course Carter’s blubbering dwindled to sorrowful sobs and occasional screams.

  When next Nate peered out, Emmet Carter bristled with arrows yet somehow still lived. His head had not been touched and he turned it repeatedly as if seeking someone.

  Abruptly, Carter trembled violently. “Forgive me my sins!” he croaked at the heavens. “I never meant—”

  The next moment, he died.

  Nate King rose onto his knees. Four Lakotas cut the body down. Each and every arrow was removed before the corpse was toted off to be left out on the prairie for scavengers to feast on.

  Ground-hitched near the large lodge were the black stallion and Zach’s paint. Nate gauged the distance, saw that none of the Oglalas were facing in that direction, and made a bid for freedom. Scooting out under the flap, he ran for all he was worth. He heaved against his bounds, but they were too tight.

  Nate was astounded when he reached the horses without an outcry being raised. He darted to the off-side of the stallion and hiked his leg to slip his foot into the stirrup. By giving a little hop, he succeeded.

/>   Now came the hard part. Nate coiled his left leg and jumped straight up, but he couldn’t rise high enough to straddle the saddle. He had to stick his foot back in the stirrup before trying it again. The result was the same.

  Frustrated, Nate ducked under the stallion and straightened next to the pinto. This time he might have better luck. It was much smaller.

  In another two seconds Nate was mounted. Bending low, he pumped his legs. The horse slowly turned and he guided it toward the far side of the large lodge.

  That was when shouts broke out.

  Nate slapped his legs harder. The pinto began to pick up speed, but not nearly quick enough to suit him. He heard onrushing footsteps and swiveled just as a couple of fleet Lakotas leaped. With his hands bound he was helpless to prevent them from yanking him off the horse and throwing him bodily to the earth. He kicked and connected, but then more men arrived. His arms were clamped tight and he was jerked to his feet.

  Over a score of warriors surrounded the trapper. Angry as riled hornets, they propelled him westward, retracing their steps past the lodge and hustling him toward the center of the ring of Lakotas.

  And toward the pole drenched with Emmet Carter’s blood.

  Nine

  He Dog did not wait until the sun was straight up. The golden orb was barely an hour high in the sky when he stood up and signed, “Enough of this waiting! I am going to find Fetches Water now. Anyone who wants, come with me.”

  Runs Against and Yellow Owl promptly rose and indicated they would join him. Two Humps objected verbally, and the next thing, all the Crows were embroiled in a vehement dispute in their own tongue.

  Winona and Zach could do nothing except sit there and wait for the Crows to finish. The Hawken lay on a blanket at the Shoshone woman’s side, and she picked it up and held it in her lap.

  Soon all the warriors were on their feet, some gesturing angrily. Bull Standing With Cow was making an earnest appeal to He Dog, but judging by He Dogs expression he was wasting his time. Winona was prepared when the stocky hothead, Yellow Owl, Runs Against and Bear Ears headed for the horse string. Springing to her feet, she leveled the Hawken and cocked it.