Wilderness Double Edition #10 Page 7

  “The meaning is the same. Unless you speak in riddles.”

  “If you knew what I know, you would not think so,” Whirlwind Hawk said. “Soon all will be made clear. Invincible One will decide what to do with you and the young one. If he does as he has done with the others—” The warrior did not finish the statement.

  “What others?” Shakespeare prompted. “Have you taken more trappers prisoner?”

  “Invincible One will answer all your questions.”

  Shakespeare was getting nowhere with the direct approach, so he tried to learn more by saying, “This Invincible One of yours is going to bring a lot of misery down on the Crows if he makes war on the Blanket Chief. Just ask the Blackfeet and the Piegans. They have been trying to defeat him for years.”

  “Your threats are empty,” Whirlwind Hawk said, but his tone lacked conviction.

  “Keep on believing that and lives will be lost on both sides,” Shakespeare said, continuing to bluff. “And once the whites know the truth about your people, there will be no more trade between us. The friendly tribes will get guns and blankets and steel knives, but not the Crows.”

  Again McNair had struck a nerve. Whirlwind Hawk was most displeased. “Without guns and steel knives we will not be able to fend off the attacks of our enemies. Already the Blackfeet and their allies have many more guns than we do. If they obtain more, my people might be driven from our land.”

  “Just as they once drove the Snakes off to take this territory,” Shakespeare said. “Perhaps your people will be able to find new land to the west. I hear there is plenty of desert no one claims as their own.”

  “You would be wise not to mock us, Wolverine.” So saying, the warrior rose and walked stiffly off.

  Shakespeare chuckled while making himself as comfortable as possible. His wrists ached abominably and his feet were practically numb, but neither bothered him much. They couldn’t hold a candle to the terrible wounds he’d once sustained during a trip to the Mandan country when a grizzly had about ripped him apart. He’d survived that; he’d survive this.

  “McNair?” Tim Curry unexpectedly whispered.

  “What?”

  “I just had a thought.”

  “Thinking is a good habit to get into.”

  “Do you reckon King will try to rescue us?”

  “As sure as I’m lying here.”

  “Tonight?”

  “There’s no telling. He’ll make his move when he figures he has the best chance. Whatever you do, don’t give him away if you should see him snaking up on us to cut us loose.”

  “I’d never do that. What do you take me for?”

  Shakespeare merely smiled and lay back to rest. There were times when keeping one’s mouth shut was wisest. Curry was miserable enough without being told he didn’t appear to have the temperament necessary to be a successful trapper, that perhaps he should go on back to Maine and take up clerking for a living.

  The thought gave Shakespeare pause. Who was he to judge others? So what if the young man was headstrong, rash, and moody? Shakespeare well remembered another young man with a similar disposition who had gone on to become a first-rate mountaineer. He had to extend the benefit of the doubt until Curry was able to prove himself, one way or the other.

  Closing his eyes, Shakespeare allowed himself to drift asleep. He entertained no fear of having his throat slit in the middle of the night. The Crows wanted them alive, for the time being, at least. And he’d need his wits sharp on the morrow, especially if they reached the village and he met the mysterious Invincible One face to face.

  But as things turned out, the journey to the Crow village required four days of hard riding. Whirlwind Hawk refused to say exactly when they’d arrive, so Shakespeare was as surprised as Tim Curry when they surmounted a rise and saw spread out below them scores of painted lodges. The village was nestled in a verdant valley, southwest of a small lake. Hundreds of horses were in evidence, along with yapping dogs, playing children, and too many women and warriors to count.

  “The Lord preserve us!” Tim Curry blurted out. It was the first Indian village he had ever seen, and while he was impressed by its orderly arrangement, and even impressed by its picturesque beauty, he was filled with dawning horror at the thought that soon, very soon, he would be slain in the most gruesome manner conceivable.

  Shakespeare saw the younger man’s expression and advised, “Don’t show that you’re afraid, Troilus. Indians don’t respect a man who is yellow. They’ll grant a brave man a quick death. But cowards they torture just to hear them squeal.”

  “I won’t let on,” Tim said, and swallowed hard. For the life of him he couldn’t understand how McNair could be so calm.

  Sentries alerted the encampment to the arrival of the search party, and by the time Whirlwind Hawk guided his party in among the lodges a considerable body of curious Crows had gathered. Shakespeare rode straight and tall, smiling at the children and women and nodding respectfully at warriors, particularly the older warriors. He hoped there were some who would know him and speak on his behalf at the tribal council that would decide their fate.

  Shakespeare was mildly puzzled when they were taken to a small lodge instead of to the large lodge of the chief, conspicuous by its location and size. He offered no protest when several strapping warriors hauled him from his horse and rather roughly shoved him inside. He quickly moved aside, and moments later young Curry stumbled through the entrance and collapsed in the very spot he had vacated.

  “What now?” Tim asked.

  “I reckon we sit and wait.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Unless you’d rather sing. Do you know the words to ‘Rock of Ages’?”

  “You are insane, McNair. Joking? Now?”

  “There’s a method to my madness,” Shakespeare replied. “When they hear us singing they’ll think we don’t have a care in the world. It will show them we’re brave men deserving of fair treatment.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try.”

  “Maybe later,” Tim said. He saw Crows filing past the opening to peer in at them. “Damn,” he muttered. “They’re acting as if we’re on exhibit.”

  “In a sense we are,” Shakespeare said. “It isn’t every day they see white men. The same thing would happen if you were to take five or six of them for a stroll through New York City.”

  “That’s different. They’re savages.”

  Shakespeare sat up and frowned. “Son, if you truly believe that, then you’re worse off than I thought. Indians are people like you and me. No more, no less. There are good and bad, kind and wicked, rich and poor. They live, eat, make love, and die much as we do. They’re allotted this earth for the same one brief lifetime, and are as scared of the veil as we are.”

  “How can you say we’re the same? They scalp whites, for God’s sake.”

  “And whites scalp them for money’s sake.”

  “They live in the wild in a primitive state.”

  “Does living in cities and towns, cramped up like too many prairie dogs in a colony, make us smarter or better than they are? As for being primitive, since when is living in harmony with Nature a crime? Isn’t that what Adam and Eve did before they were cast out of the Garden?”

  “You make them sound better than our own kind,” Tim said testily. “Maybe that comes from having lived among them so long.”

  “I’m not saying any such thing,” Shakespeare said. “I’m just trying to get the point across that we don’t have a right to brand them as savages when we’re not all that refined ourselves.”

  “You can talk until you’re blue in the face but you’ll never convince me,” Tim declared. “Maybe some of them are good. It hardly matters. Because they’re all heathens, every last mother’s son of them.”

  Shakespeare lapsed into silence. It would be a study in futility to try and make the greenhorn understand. Some of life’s lesson had to be learned through experience. He was toying with the idea of taking a nap when
outside the lodge a commotion broke out. A shadow darkened the opening, and a Crow warrior with high cheekbones and a cleft chin poked his head in.

  “One of you speaks our tongue, I am told.”

  “I do,” Shakespeare confessed. “Are you Invincible One, the chief?”

  For a few fleeting moments the warrior s features underwent a startling change, reflecting intense, bitter hatred. He seemed to wrestle with inner demons, then composed himself and said, “I am a chief, but I am Two Humps.”

  “The father of Gray Badger.”

  Two Humps entered and squatted in front of McNair. “Then it is true,” he said anxiously. “You have seen him. How is he?”

  “Fine, the last I saw,” Shakespeare answered. “He was half starved when we found him so we gave him some food. I tried to find out why he was all by himself, but before he could tell me anything we were interrupted by Whirlwind Hawk.” Shakespeare paused. “I got the idea he had run away from your village. He was afraid we would bring him back.”

  “Afraid?”

  “He claimed he would be beaten.”

  A cloud flitted across the warrior s face and he clenched his fists until the knuckles were white. “I do not beat my children,” he said harshly.

  Shakespeare believed him. The raw emotion the father showed was genuine. “Your son told me that Invincible One would order him to be beaten.”

  Two Humps glanced darkly at the entrance. “I would die before I would let him go so far,” he said half to himself. “There are limits.”

  “I do not understand,” Shakespeare said kindly, hoping to elicit more information. “Since when do chiefs have the right to order a boy whipped? I lived among your people once, and I never heard of such a thing.”

  The warrior glowered, but not at McNair. “There have been many changes in our village since the Invincible One came to live among us. Few of them have been for the better.”

  “Where did he come from? Another Crow village?”

  “No,” Two Humps said. “He is not a Crow.”

  The revelation shocked McNair. It was unthinkable for any tribe to accept as chief one who was not of their blood. The Invincible One’s medicine had to be great indeed to have accomplished such a miracle. “How can this be?” he asked. “When I lived among you, a Crow had to prove himself worthy over many winters before he became a chief. He had to demonstrate his bravery by earning many coup, and show his generosity to his people by giving often to those in need. Has this outsider done all that?”

  “He counted four coup when he led a raid on the Piegans to punish them for attacking us,” Two Humps said.

  “Four? That is all? Most chiefs I know have counted twenty or thirty.”

  “And he does pass out coffee and sugar and blankets to those in need.”

  “How does he get them? Trading with whites?”

  The Crow appeared reluctant to discuss the issue. After a bit he said, “It is not wise to question the Invincible One’s actions. Since no one can kill him, he can do as he pleases.”

  “Including beating a small boy if he wants?” Shakespeare asked.

  Two Humps abruptly stood. “I thank you, white man, for being kind to my son. If the decision were mine to make, I would restore all of your belongings and allow you to go your way in peace, as a friend. But Invincible One has other plans for you. There is nothing I can do.” Stooping, he went out.

  The interview had left Shakespeare more confused than ever. He wished he had thought to inquire about which tribe the Invincible One hailed from. He moved to the opening, expecting to find the Crows had begun to disperse. To his consternation, he saw the warriors huddled to one side while the women and children waited in an expectant group as if for an important decision.

  “What’s happening?” Tim asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What did that warrior want?”

  “He was the boy's father,” Shakespeare said absently. He was more interested in the tall figure at the center of the knot of warriors, a figure to whom all the others were listening. It had to be the Invincible One. Shakespeare shifted, trying to get a better glimpse, but too many Crows blocked his view.

  “Listen, I’ve been thinking again,” Tim said. “What if we try to buy our freedom? We’ll offer them five rifles for each of us in exchange for letting us go.”

  “We don’t have ten rifles.”

  “So we’ll pretend we can get our hands on them. We’ll tell the Crows that if they’ll take us to Fort William, the guns will be theirs. As highly as they value firearms, they’re bound to go for the deal. And once we’re there, we’re safe.”

  “It won’t work. They wouldn’t trust us.”

  “Where’s the harm in trying?”

  “Once the Crows learn we’ve tricked them, there will be one hell of a fight. A lot of good men would die on our account.” Shakespeare glanced at the greenhorn. “I for one wouldn’t want their deaths on my conscience.”

  “You’d rather be killed?”

  Amazement froze the reply on Shakespeare’s lips. The clustered warriors had suddenly parted, revealing the tall figure in the middle. The man strode in lordly fashion toward the lodge, the warriors following like dutiful children.

  It had to be the Invincible One.

  And he was white!

  Chapter Six

  About the time that Shakespeare McNair was making the shocking discovery that would shortly embroil him in a desperate fight for his life, Nate King was nearing the Crow village from the southwest. He spied a rise ahead, and stopped in the shelter of a pine in case the war party had stopped on the crest to scour the area for enemies. After making certain there were no silhouettes on the skyline, he started around the tree, then drew up in alarm and dropped his hand to his knife.

  Voices carried on the breeze, mingled with low laughter. Nate had to lean forward to see through the woods to his left. A pair of Crow warriors were forty yards off, moving parallel with the trail he followed. One had a dead buck hanging over the back of his mount. Judging by the noise they were making, neither had any idea there was anyone else close by.

  Nate smiled. For the warriors to be so relaxed and noisy indicated they were close to their village. He observed them climb the rise and disappear beyond. Then, hugging all available cover, he rode to the top himself.

  From behind a row of pines Nate gazed down on the Crow village. The entire populace was gathered near a small lodge, where quite a tumult was taking place. The press of people prevented him from learning the exact cause, but the racket did not bode well for McNair and Curry.

  Wheeling the horse, Nate rode to the bottom of the hill and slanted to the west. He intended to circle around until he could locate his friends. As he drew abreast of a small stand of shimmering aspens, the horse glanced into the stand and whinnied.

  Nate looked but didn’t see anything. He rode on, passed the aspens, and trotted toward high brush. A low growl snapped him around, and this time he saw a village mongrel bristling in feral anger while behind it stood three small boys armed with small bows. They gaped in astonishment at him. Then one gave a shout and the trio pivoted on their heels and fled through the aspens with their dog at their heels.

  Instantly Nate turned into the forest and galloped westward away from the village. The boys would spread the alarm and within minutes there would be anywhere from fifty to one hundred warriors spreading out across the countryside after him. He went over two miles, then climbed a switchback to an upland bench. There he halted to rest his mount and ascertain if the Crows were tracking him.

  There wasn’t much daylight left. The lengthening shadows plunged the lower slopes in gloom. Nate surveyed them without result. He feared greatly for the safety of the others, but was not about to do anything rash. If he was caught, the others had no hope at all.

  In due course the sun sank. The Crows never appeared. Nate became restless and paced back and forth, unable to explain their absence. He had been in such a hurry to escape h
e hadn’t bothered to hide his tracks, so they should have had no trouble sticking to his trail. Either they hadn’t been interested in catching him, which he didn’t believe for a minute, or else the boys hadn’t told anyone they’d seen him, which seemed highly unlikely. Whatever, he was not going to delay any longer.

  Picking his way carefully, Nate threaded a roundabout route through the woodland. The bench fell far behind, and he presently saw pinpoints of light in the distance. Since he had the wind at his back and didn’t care to have the dogs detect his scent, he angled to the south, then eastward. Approximately a quarter of a mile from the encampment, he halted and secured his horse to an oak tree.

  Holding the butcher knife in one hand, the tomahawk in the other, Nate crept forward, stopping repeatedly to listen. The village was quieter than it should be. Absent were the night singers, the beat of drums, the muted drone of voices. He advanced until he could see individual lodges, then flattened and crawled. All the dwellings were lit from within, and in addition a few outside fires blazed. The latter might give him away should the light reflect off his pale skin at the wrong moment, so he paused to smear dirt on his cheeks, brow, and chin.

  Snaking into a thicket, Nate stalked to the very perimeter of the village. He saw horses behind every lodge, but not nearly as many as there should be. And suddenly the odd lack of activity made sense. Most of the warriors were gone.

  Nate was thoroughly mystified. Where had the Crow men gone, if not after him? What else could have drawn them all from the village? An enemy war party perhaps, or a report by a scout of a big group of trappers nearby. Yet he had seen no sign of either.

  He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. With the majority of warriors gone, his task was less dangerous but far from a cinch. The lodge he must reach stood sixty yards off. In between were fourteen other lodges, and there was no cover whatsoever.

  Boldly rising, Nate tucked his weapons under his belt and entered the Crow village. He strolled along as if he didn’t have a care in the world, prudently holding his head low so his features were in shadow. From a distance he might be mistaken for a Crow, but a close scrutiny would give him away. Above all else he must hide his beard.