Wilderness Giant Edition 3 Read online

  Since Nate couldn’t hope to outrun the band and there was nowhere to seek cover, he grabbed for his flintlock, determined not to submit meekly.

  The warriors were fanning out, several taking deliberate aim. Chances were slim they would miss a second time.

  Just then a newcomer arrived on the scene in a flurry of dust. Yelling, frantically waving his arms, he rode between Nate and the band and reined up.

  Nate recognized the same Indian he had run into earlier, the strange man he had found at the top of the ravine. To his amazement the warrior seemed intent on having the others lower their bows and lances. In an unknown tongue the strange one went on at some length, often pointing at Nate for emphasis. Several of the others spoke up and were harshly rebuked. Finally they obeyed and the newcomer wheeled his horse, then jumped down and warily approached.

  Nate straightened, keeping his flintlock leveled. He had no idea what to expect, no inkling of why this Indian should save his life when previously the man had acted as if he were the Devil incarnate.

  The Indian halted. He nervously fingered his leather bag while examining Nate closely. Suddenly, sinking to his knees, he touched his forehead to the ground and said several words.

  Bewildered by the man’s behavior, Nate replied in Shoshone, “I do not understand.” He repeated the same statement in the Flathead language. Neither garnered a reply.

  The Indian glanced up and showed his teeth in what could only be described as a fearful smile. Slowly rising, he resorted to sign language.

  A few of the symbols the man used were different than those Nate was accustomed to, but he was able to get the general drift by piecing those he knew together.

  “Greetings, mighty one. Your medicine is more powerful than any ever known. We mean you no harm. We welcome you to our country and offer you a place to stay during your visit here.”

  Puzzled, Nate responded with, “I thank you for your kindness. How are you known?”

  “Forgive my manners,” the Indian signed. “I thought you would know all things.” He tapped his chest. “I am White Calf, medicine man of the Pawnee.”

  Nate’s stomach muscles tightened. He’d never had personal dealings with the Pawnees but from what he’d heard they were a treacherous tribe. Rumor had it that they would welcome large parties of whites to their villages in peace but lone trappers were frequently slain for their belongings and their scalps. Suspicious of a trick, he asked, “Why did you act as you did before?”

  White Calf answered without hesitation, “I was afraid of your power, great one. I did not want to be consumed by fire or turned to stone.”

  Assuming the Pawnee to be joking, Nate smiled. Yet the man seemed wholly sincere, which added to Nate’s confusion. “Why would I do such a thing?” he demanded.

  “I was where I should not have been,” White Calf signed without apparent guile, adding quickly, “I did not mean to be in your way. Believe me, had I known you were coming I would have been elsewhere.”

  Nate did not have the slightest idea what the man was talking about. Many of the warriors were regarding him oddly, contributing to his unease. He decided to pass on the invite and signed, “I do not hold it against you. One day we will smoke a pipe together but now I must be on my way.”

  Shock lined White Calf’s face. “Have we offended you that you leave us so soon? Please, come to our village. Our people will rejoice to have you among us. We will sing your praises as our ancestors did, and all that you wish will be done.”

  Nate had heard false flattery before but nothing to equal this. He wanted to be on his way. At the same time he hoped to avoid antagonizing the Pawnees if at all possible.

  The medicine man took advantage of Nate’s hesitation and dashed to his mount. Head bowed, arm extended, he brought the animal over. “Here. Take my horse unless you would rather fly. I will ride with another.”

  As if on cue the other warriors closed in.

  Resisting a tide of panic, Nate debated whether to make a fight of it or to run. He was convinced the Pawnees were playing him for a fool and intended to rub him out later. Perhaps if he went along with them, he’d get the chance to escape first. In any event, he’d be better able to elude them astride a horse. “I accept your offer,” he signed, taking the reins.

  White Calf beamed as if given his heart’s desire. “This is a great day for my people.”

  A lean warrior rode up to offer a hand and the medicine man swung up behind him. The rest formed a circle around Nate, effectively preventing him from fleeing. With the pair riding double in the lead, the band headed southward at a trot.

  Nate had one consolation. So far the Pawnees had not thought to strip him of his weapons. He might be able to shoot and slash his way out if they let down their guard at just the right time. He became conscious of being studied on the sly and wondered why they appeared to find him so fascinating when he was no differently dressed than other trappers would be.

  Two hours of hard riding brought them to a shaded grove where they stopped at a signal from White Calf. Nate contrived to be the last one to dismount so he could dash off once they had all climbed down but the medicine man spoiled his scheme by walking over and taking casual hold of his animal’s bridle.

  Outsmarted again, Nate slid off and brushed dust from his buckskins.

  “If it pleases you, great one,” White Calf signed, “we would like to prepare for our return. There is a spring here where you can wash and slake your thirst, if indeed you need to drink as we do.”

  Nate was growing irritated by the sport the Pawnees were having at his expense. “Of course I need to drink and eat,” he signed with angry gestures. “I have a body just like you. I hunger, I thirst.”

  White Calf swallowed hard and responded, “My apology for not seeing that which is right in front of me. My experience with your kind is limited.”

  More mad than ever, Nate strode off to burn off steam. None of the warriors tried to stop him. Rounding a cottonwood he discovered the spring and knelt. He dipped a hand in the cool water, then heard footsteps and spun, his hand flashing to his flintlock.

  Several warriors halted in surprise but made no move to employ their weapons.

  Rising, Nate backed off. Once on the other side of the spring he turned on his heel and entered the brush, resolved to lose the Pawnees at all costs. Swiftly he wound along until the undergrowth ended. The edge of the grove was in front of him, the open prairie beckoning. There might be a gully or a ravine out there in which he could hide. He dashed to the last tree and paused to scan the terrain.

  In the distance buffalo roamed. Closer, a great hawk spun in majestic circles seeking prey. Insects buzzed, birds chirped.

  Nate took a step, bearing to the northwest, when the crack of a twig warned him that he had been followed. And who else would it be but White Calf.

  “Here you are, Sky Walker!” the medicine man signed. “I brought you this to make amends. From now on, when you are hungry you have only to let me know and you will have all the food you can eat.” Over his shoulder was slung a parfleche into which he dipped a hand to produce pemmican.

  Nate took the piece without comment. An impulse to pound the Pawnee senseless had to be checked because two other warriors trailed him. Munching halfheartedly, he gazed longingly at the prairie, so close yet in a sense so far. He had almost made it.

  “We will leave when you are ready, Sky Walker, not before,” White Calf signed.

  Sticking the pemmican in his mouth, Nate responded, “Why do you keep calling me by that name?”

  “What else would we call one who strides the sky as you do?”

  Not having the slightest idea what the Pawnee referred to, Nate finished his morsel before replying, “The Shoshones know me as Grizzly Killer.”

  White Calf blinked in surprise. “You have visited the Shoshones first? What did they do to earn your favor that we did not do? Are our ceremonies done incorrectly? Do we dance poorly? Have our sacrifices been in vain?”


  The wavering note of desperation in the medicine man’s voice startled Nate. For the life of him he could not fathom the Pawnee’s behavior. “They know me because I met them before I met you,” he explained.

  The medicine man considered this. “Will you go to other tribes as well?” he inquired.

  “In time I will meet many,” Nate predicted.

  “So you did not come just to visit my people?”

  “No,” Nate signed, and was puzzled by the pained expression his response caused. “My people go where they wish, seeing who they please.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “More than the buffalo.”

  The astonishment lining White Calf’s features was almost comical. He placed a hand over his mouth and gaped heavenward for a while, then regained his composure and moved his hands to say, “Truly there is much I have to learn. I thought there would be few of you. To support so many your land must be much bigger than we have imagined it to be.”

  Fond memories of his uncle’s farm in upstate New York made Nate’s voice husky. “Our land is not only big but thick with deer and fish. It rains more often so the ground is rich and there are many trees. The Blood Moon is not as hot, the Snow Moon is not as cold. And the people live in peace with one another.”

  “Truly you live in paradise,” White Calf signed. “Do you need lodges or do you live in the open?”

  Nate thought the question quaint. “We live in lodges, like you do, but ours are much different. Many are made with moist clay hardened by heat or with stone.”

  White Calf clapped a hand to his cheek. “How can this be?” he then asked. “Surely the stone is too heavy and falls?”

  “Do your lodges fall down?”

  “Sometimes when the wind is very strong.”

  “We make ours too strong for the wind,” Nate detailed, “and as high as the tops of these trees.”

  “Your country is beyond words,” the Pawnee said, gawking at the nearest treetop. “That you should leave so wonderful a place to come here is a mystery. What can we possibly have that would interest you?”

  “We like to travel, to see new places, new faces,” Nate said. He thought of Winona and expressed a compliment, “And some of us think your women are the most beautiful women anywhere.”

  The light of comprehension dawned in White Calf’s restless eyes. “This, at last, I understand. Men have always admired the beauty of women and needed women as companions. Why should it be true for us and not for you?” He paused as if uncertain whether to continue. “But what do your own women think of this?”

  “There are those who think badly of us. There are those who let us do as we please.”

  “Women are the same everywhere,” the medicine man stated with a knowing grin. “Whether high or low many feel they must put us on the straight path because we are too stupid to find the path ourselves.”

  “Question. You have a wife?” Nate asked.

  “I did,” White Calf revealed. “The Blackfeet rubbed her out.” He glanced up, abruptly excited. “This is something I have never understood. Why does your kind let the Blackfeet and the Bloods live? They are good for nothing other than stripping wives of husbands, children of fathers. Your people should kill them, kill them all!” Rabid anger transformed the Pawnee into a livid avenger.

  More amused by the outburst than anything else, Nate signed, “My people do not go on the war path against other people unless those others attack us first.”

  “Then you must never go on the warpath. You are out of reach, safe in your stone lodges.” White Calf sighed. “I wish we could say the same. My wife would be alive today.” Hefting the parfleche, he brightened and wondered, “Do you want more pemmican?”

  “No,” Nate said, beginning to relax a little. The

  Pawnee’s friendliness had relieved some of his anxiety but not all. He debated whether to come right out and ask that they go their separate ways so he could resume his search for Winona.

  “Would you have us leave?”

  The unexpected query delighted Nate. “Yes,” he signed eagerly. “I very much would.”

  A yell from the medicine man brought the rest of the band at a trot. Nate’s elation was short-lived as his horse was led right up to him and the reins handed over. Discouraged, he climbed on and made no protest as the Pawnees trotted southward. They were not about to let him go, he realized, so he had better keep his eyes skinned for another chance to get away. “This coon isn’t going under without taking a few with him,” he vowed under his breath. Perhaps one day Shakespeare or another Mountain Man would hear of the trapper who went down under a pile of Pawnees and recognize him from the description given. At least then Winona and Zach and his child yet unborn would learn of his fate.

  For the remainder of the day the band pushed hard, riding their animals to the point of exhaustion. They clearly wanted to reach a certain destination before nightfall, and Nate had no difficulty guessing it. Nor was his guess wrong. Along about sunset they passed through rolling hills and reined up on one overlooking a tranquil river bordered by a large village.

  “Our people,” White Calf signed proudly.

  Smoke curled from scores of campfires. Children scampered playfully about as they did in every Indian village, while the women were busily tending to supper. Lookouts spotted the new arrivals and yipped to alert everyone else.

  ‘‘You will not regret coming,” the medicine man assured Nate as they wound down to a lush strip of land where tilled fields of corn, beans, and squash grew in abundance.

  These were the first crops Nate had seen in ages. His adopted people, the Shoshones, and most other Western tribes, disdained cultivating the soil. They were hunters first and foremost, although to add variety to their diet the women gathered berries, roots, and certain plants in season.

  Having had experience on a farm when younger, Nate could tell that these crops were expertly tended. They were arranged in neat rows and any weeds had been diligently pulled out. No one had ever told him that the Pawnees farmed so extensively; his opinion of them rose several notches.

  Once past the fields Nate received another surprise. The lodges of this tribe were not at all like those of the Shoshones, Flathead, and Crows. In place of the typical buffalo hide teepees, the Pawnees preferred odd affairs made from logs, dirt, and grass. He saw one under construction and marveled at its simple yet effective design. The log frame came first, then layers of grass and dirt were added for as much insulation as the builders desired. In the summer the interiors would be cool, in the winter comfortably warm.

  White Calf led the band into the heart of the village. He rode with his back straight, his chin jutting proudly, drinking in the attention lavished on him because of the stranger he had brought back.

  From all directions the Pawnees converged. Men, women, and children stopped whatever they were doing to investigate the commotion.

  Nate found himself completely surrounded by a thick throng of humanity, the warriors at the forefront, many with bows and lances in hand. There was no hope of escape. Should the Pawnees decide to take his life he would be bristling with wooden quills before he could lift a finger to defend himself.

  In front of a lodge much bigger than the rest White Calf drew rein. A gray-haired warrior whose stately features bespoke inherent nobility emerged and regarded the party somberly. His features were seamed with age yet his eyes were sparkling beacons crackling with vitality that belied his years.

  Nate guessed that here was a chief. The man studied him intently, making Nate feel as if he was under a microscope. Other warriors joined the elderly man but respectfully stood either behind him or to one side.

  The members of White Calf’s band had formed a ring around Nate but at a distance. Nate didn’t know if they had done it to hem him in or to protect him from the inquisitive throng, which milled steadily closer. Women tittered and pointed. Children gawked and giggled. The men, on the other hand, were gravely serious, and not a few displayed
outright hostility.

  Softly spoken words issued from the chief. White Calf responded at length, with frequent grand gestures, often indicating Nate. The chief listened without expression but the same could not be said of his people.

  Nate was stunned to see the reaction rippling among the Pawnees. First there was mild surprise, then stark astonishment, then undeniable awe. Children hid behind the legs of parents and peeked out at him in blatant fear. Women backed away or averted their faces when his gaze fell on them. Warriors nervously wagged their weapons, some fingering their bow strings as if inclined to put arrows into him.

  What the devil was White Calf telling them? Nate wondered irritably. He didn’t trust White Calf as far as he could heave a bull buffalo, and something told him the medicine man was bringing a heap of trouble down on his head. He wanted to interrupt, to address the chief directly, but such rudeness was only tolerated in white society.

  A tall warrior standing beside the chief abruptly grunted and walked toward Nate. His bearing marked him as a man of importance. His face marked him as a man of courage. He scrutinized Nate while circling Nate’s mount and when he was done he made a statement that brought derisive smiles to many faces.

  Nate glanced at the man and their eyes locked. He smiled to show his friendly intentions but the smile had an odd effect; the warrior backed up a stride and fingered his knife. To confirm his intentions, Nate used sign to say, “I come in peace. You need not fear.”

  Instead of being pacified, the tall warrior glowered and started to draw his blade. A shriek from an attractive woman in the crowd stopped him.

  White Calf turned. The chief advanced and addressed the tall warrior in his quiet voice. When the tall warrior answered, White Calf became angry and spoke sharply, again motioning a lot at Nate. Strangely, he pointed at the sky almost as much.

  Thoroughly confounded, Nate impatiently waited for the parley to end so he could make it plain that he meant them no harm. The very notion was ridiculous, outnumbered as he was a hundred to one.