Legend had it the Utes once lived on the plains but competition for the buffalo-rich grasslands became too fierce so the tribe migrated into the mountains and liked it so much, they stayed. The new land they chose, deep in the central Rockies, was a natural fortress ringed by craggy ramparts that discouraged outsiders.
The region contained some of the most spectacular terrain Nate King had ever seen. Mountains so high, a man had to bend his head back to see their snow-mantled crowns. Forests thick and lush. Rivers and streams wide and swift. And interwoven through it all, verdant valleys where the Utes pitched their villages. It was a literal paradise.
Nate readily understood why the Utes fought as savagely to preserve it. Ute land was their land and they were not overly friendly to outsiders, red or white. Consequently, despite Neota’s invitation, Nate rode uneasily, the Hawken always across his thighs. He came on Ute sign now and again, but nothing recent.
Neota had left directions on how to find the river his band was camped near at that time of year, but the landmarks were few and far between and it would be easy to stray off course if Nate had not honed his sense of direction until he was a walking compass. Whether day or night, sunshine or rain, he never became lost. Even when he did not know where he was, he always knew which direction he was traveling. And in the wilderness, that counted for more than all the maps and directions in the world.
To Nate’s knowledge, no other white man had ever penetrated this far. The gorgeous scenery he beheld was being viewed by white eyes for the first time. The wonders and magnificence of the Ute homeland, like the spectacular geyser country the Shoshones claimed as their own, had to be seen to be believed.
Wildlife was abundant. Majestic bald eagles and screeching hawks soared high in the sky. The waterways teemed with fish. Herds of elk and mountain buffalo grazed unafraid in grass-rich meadows. Deer by the score roamed the woodland. Smaller game was everywhere, so that Nate could hardly turn his head without setting eyes on one kind of animal or another.
Nate breathed deep of the bracing air and felt a twinge of envy. This was the kind of country he wouldn’t mind calling his own. Land as the Almighty intended it to be. As it must have been during the days of Adam and Eve in the garden.
It never ceased to amuse Nate how he once liked city life. How he had accepted the smoke and noise and congestion as normal. New York City was the largest in the States, a city so big, no other could compare. Its streets were lined with homes, businesses, and other structures crammed one against another, and perpetually clogged with people, carriages, and wagons. Silence was unknown. The babble of voices, clattering of hooves, and rattling of wheels rose in a continuous din. Even in the dead of night a man couldn’t open his window and enjoy a solitary second of priceless quiet. Yet no one seemed to mind.
That was the amazing thing to Nate. Oh, some newspaper editors occasionally took the city to task over the number of wagon accidents and the dozens of pedestrians run over each year. And now and then editorials were devoted to the harmful effects of breathing all that smoke. But nothing ever came of it.
Crime was rampant. Corruption was widespread. Graft commonplace. The people liked to joke that the only honest politicians were dead ones. Yet few cared. New Yorkers went on about their lives as if living in a cesspool were perfectly ordinary.
Nate had no right to criticize them, though. Once he had had the same outlook. He thought city life was the sum total of existence. Everything he did each day, from the time he woke up in the morning until his head hit the pillow again at night, was defined by boundaries imposed by society. He had only been as free as the politicians and the laws they made let him be. Like a horse with blinders on, he had gone about his daily routine none the wiser.
That all changed when Nate came west. The rolling vista of green prairie and emerald foothills, the majesty of the ivory-capped mountains, had taken his breath way. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined how truly glorious they were. Those early years, he couldn’t get enough. He fell into the habit of being up before first light so he could admire each breathtaking sunrise, and into sitting outside every evening to soak in the supernal beauty of each new sensational sunset. But that was only part of the change that came over him. The external part.
An inner change took place, too. Being able to live as he pleased had been a revelation. Nate could do what he wanted, when he wanted. No one was looking over his shoulder. There were no laws to abide by, no rules to follow. He wasn’t accountable to anyone except his own conscience.
Nate had taken to his new life like a duckling to water. When he was younger he often daydreamed of adventure and excitement in far-off lands. Little had he realized it wasn’t necessary to travel halfway around the globe. All he had to do was head for the frontier. Once across the Mississippi, every man was on his own.
A whole new realm of delights and dangers had been spread out before him, and Nate had gobbled them up as a starving man gobbles up a five-course meal.
Nate had few regrets. He was glad he had come west, glad destiny had woven Winona’s skein and his into a single thread. If he had it to do all over again, he would do it pretty much as he had the first time around.
Suddenly the bay nickered and bobbed its head, returning Nate to the present. He pretended to still be adrift in thought, and without being obvious, scanned the woodland and adjacent slopes. He saw nothing to account for the bay’s warning, but the horse wasn’t the skittish sort. Sliding his right hand to the Hawken’s breech, he curled his forefinger around the trigger and his thumb around the hammer.
Another mile brought Nate to a high pass. By then he was certain someone, or something, was shadowing him. He hadn’t seen them or heard them, but he could feel their presence. And if there was one thing he had learned from his years in the high country, it was to never discount his intuition. Hunches, as the mountain men more commonly called them, had saved many a poor coon’s hide. His included.
Nate took pride in his woodcraft. He had learned from the best, from old-time mountaineers like Shakespeare McNair and renowned Shoshone warriors like Touch The Clouds. When it came to stalking, and to telling when he was being stalked, he was second to none.
So it was all the more upsetting for Nate to be thwarted in his attempts to spot the party or parties responsible. He imagined they must be Utes, but they stayed remarkably well hid, even when crossing terrain where trees and brush were at a premium.
Pausing before he entered the pass, Nate gave the lower slopes a last scrutiny, then started on through. He rode twisted sideways so he could keep an eye behind him. He was almost to the opposite side when a shadow rippled across the gap. It was there and it was gone. Other than a suggestion of size, Nate couldn’t begin to guess what made it. Maybe a warrior on horseback. Maybe an animal. Whether man or beast, it was savvy enough not to show itself.
Riding out the far side, Nate descended a narrow trail. He hadn’t gone ten yards when he drew rein, slid off, and raced back up. Crouching low, he peered into the pass, waiting for the stalker to appear. It wouldn’t be long, he reasoned, but minute after minute dragged by and the pass remained empty. After a quarter of an hour it was apparent that whatever had been back there had lost interest.
Rising, Nate returned to his horses. He took his sweet time descending into the next valley and repeatedly checked behind him. Nothing appeared, though, and twilight found him traversing a bench to the southwest. Tomorrow he had one more valley to cross and he should arrive in the general vicinity of Neota’s village.
At the moment Nate’s priority was to find a spot to camp for the night. A knoll close to a bubbling stream was ideal. He tethered the bay and the packhorse so they could graze, filled his coffeepot with water, and hunkered in at the base of the knoll to partake of pemmican and jerked buffalo meat while waiting for the coffee to brew.
A sliver of moon rose, the signal for every coyote within earshot to yip. An owl hooted and was answered by another, and far to the northwest a lonesome wolf voiced a plaintive howl. All sounds Nate had heard hundreds of times, as much a part of the night as the stars. He sat and sipped coffee until near on to midnight. By then the fire had burned almost down to embers, and leaving it to die out, he carried his bedroll and his rifle to the top of the knoll. From there he could see well back into the trees and spot anyone, or anything, trying to sneak up on him.
Stretching out on his back, Nate propped his head in his hands and permitted himself a luxury he hadn’t indulged in since leaving his homestead: He thought about Winona and Evelyn. Invisible fingers enclosed his heart. He missed them, missed them terribly. Sadness weighed on him like the weight of the world, and he wished to God the Utes had never come to him for help.
Drowsiness set in. Nate hovered on the cusp of slumber. He was almost under when a robin twittered loudly and took noisy flight from a patch of undergrowth fifty yards distant. It snapped him awake, and his hands fell to the Hawken. Robins weren’t night birds. They were active during the day. For one to make so much racket, something had to spook it.
Nate slowly sat up. A robin wouldn’t be scared of a rabbit or a deer. It had to be a predator. Coyotes or bobcats weren’t cause for concern, but larger meat-eaters definitely were. It might be a mountain lion, stalking the horses; painters were especially fond of horseflesh. Or it could be something a lot worse.
Breath baited, Nate raked the forest for a telltale hint. He was about convinced that whatever it was had moved on when a shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness and moved toward the knoll. The size of the thing caused the short hairs at the nape of his neck to prickle. It was a bear.
Nate hoped it was the killer grizzly. All he needed was a clear shot and he could be on his way home as soon as he let Neota know the griz was dead. Wedging the Hawken to his shoulder, he fixed a bead on the center of the silhouette.
The bear needed to be a lot closer before Nate fired. He had to place the ball just right, either into its heart or its lungs or the brainpan. Anything less, and the bruin would be on him before he could reload. Even then, there were no guarantees. He knew of instances where bears shot through their vitals had lived long enough to rend those responsible limb from flayed limb.
The shadow stopped. On Nate’s ears fell the faint but unmistakable whoof of a bear testing the breeze for scent. As he well knew, bears lived by their noses. Their eyesight wasn’t any better than a human’s, their hearing only a little sharper. By comparison, their noses were olfactory wonders. Old-timers swore that bears could smell fresh blood from a mile off when the wind was right.
One grizzled veteran of the trapping trade liked to tell of the time he was sweeping a stretch of country below him with his spyglass and he caught sight of a grizzly at least two miles west of his position. The bear kept sniffing the air while traveling purposefully eastward. Curious as to what had aroused the grizzly’s interest, he kept watching. Almost a mile from where he’d spotted it, the grizzly came to a mound of brush and limbs heaped over a dead elk. A cougar’s kill, most likely, but the griz helped himself.
Nate had witnessed incredible examples of grizzly prowess, too. He had learned to never take the great bears for granted, and to never, ever underestimate them. Just about the time a man thought he had grizzlies all figured out, they went and did something totally unexpected.
Now, as the giant shadow glided nearer, Nate eased back the Hawken’s hammer. There was the barest of clicks. He barely heard it, and he was holding the rifle. Yet in the blink of an eye the shadow melted away. No sounds accompanied its departure. Had Nate not known better, he would have doubted the bear was ever there.
For over an hour Nate sat up, waiting. Bears were notorious for circling around to get at their intended meals from different directions. He wouldn’t put it past this one to do the same. But the woods were as still as a graveyard.
At last Nate lay back down. Sleep was a long time coming. Every noise, however slight, brought him up onto his elbows. Dawn arrived much too soon. To ward off tendrils of fatigue, he made a new pot of coffee and downed three quarters of it in great gulps.
Midmorning found Nate atop a hunchbacked rise, the last of the landmarks Neota had given Winona. Below him unfolded a broad valley bisected by a river as blue as a mountain lake. Adjoining it were well over a hundred lodges arranged in traditional Ute fashion, many emblazoned with painted symbols.
Nate knew this was just one of many villages. No one knew exactly how many there were, because the Utes were so secretive. Best estimates pegged the nation as four thousand strong.
There had to be upward of three hundred in the village below. Not far from it grazed a horse herd over a thousand strong. The Utes, like many tribes, placed high value on their stock. A warrior’s worth was judged not only by the number of coup he had counted but by the number of horses he owned. Wealth wasn’t a concept limited to whites, although the Indian idea of riches would make most white men laugh them to scorn.
Firming his hold on the pack animal’s lead rope, Nate started down. He didn’t try to approach unseen. When he came to a well-worn trail he used it, and made a point to sit tall in the saddle with his shoulders thrown back and his head high. It wouldn’t do for the famous Grizzly Killer to show fear.
Nate hadn’t gone all that far when he heard the beat of hoofs, and around a bend up ahead appeared several young warriors. They took one look and promptly drew rein. Excited jabbering occurred, at which point they wheeled their mounts and flew back toward the village as if all the demons of the pit were chasing them.
Nate held to a walk. Reaching behind him, he opened a saddlebag and took out a special item. He imagined he would have use for it before too long, and he wasn’t disappointed. The three young warriors returned with fully twenty more, several gray-haired elders at the forefront. Smiling to demonstrate his peaceable intentions, he held the object aloft.
It was a peace pipe. Exquisitely carved from hardwood and decorated with eagle feathers and the claws of a black bear, the pipe belonged to Neota. The chief had assured Winona it would ensure Nate unmolested passage across Ute land, and his unchallenged entry into Neota’s village.
But the Utes confronting him now arrayed themselves across the trail, four and five deep, blocking it, and an older warrior armed with a bow raised it aloft.
Nate drew rein a dozen yards away. Tucking the pipe under his belt to free his hands, he resorted to the well-nigh-universal language of tribes throughout the central mountains and across much of the plains: sign language.
“Question,” he asked, his fingers flowing smoothly. “Village I see Neota sit?” As was his habit, Nate mentally filled in the gaps. In English it would be. “Mind if I ask you a question? Does Neota live in the village ahead?” As languages went, sign talk was skin and bones. There were over a thousand sign symbols, but it had been Nate’s experience that most tribes used only three to four hundred in their day-to-day exchanges.
The warrior with the gray hair studied Nate intently, then lowered the bow and signed, in effect, “Are you the one Neota went to find? Are you the white-eye called Grizzly Killer?”
“I am,” Nate signed.
A much younger warrior with a moon face and a florid complexion moved his hands emphatically: “You finally came! Where were you twelve sleeps ago when we lost six warriors? Where were you last night?”
The old man glanced sharply at the younger and said something in the Ute tongue. The young one responded in sign, “I do not care if I offend him! My brother is dead! If this white is the fearless killer of bears we hear so much about, why did he take so long to show his hairy face?”
“I can answer that for myself,” Nate signed. “I was mauled by a black bear and needed time to recover.”
“Some bear killer,” the younger warrior scoffed, and several other Utes smirked in agreement.
“Enough, Niwot!” the older man signed. “Grizzly Killer is here at Neota’s request. You will make him welcome, as you would any honored guest.”
“My brother might be alive if this white had not taken so long to get here,” Niwot responded. “He has my contempt until he proves he deserves better.” Reining around, the young warrior departed. Eight others went with him.
Nate had anticipated some hostility, but not this much, this soon. “I am sorry I did not arrive sooner.”
The old warrior’s seamed features creased in a friendly smile. “I am the one who should apologize. You must forgive Niwot. Twelve sleeps ago he lost his brother to Scar. He has been bitter ever since.”
“Scar? Is that what your people call the grizzly?”
“It is more than a name. It is him. He is scarred outside and in, and from the depths of his pain our misery is born.”
Nate didn’t quite understand but held off asking a bunch of questions for the time being. Except for the most important. “Where is Neota? I hoped he would greet me in person.
The face of every Ute clouded, and the old warrior answered, “Scar struck again last night. He ripped open a lodge, killed the family inside, and dragged off a young woman. Neota and forty warriors went after him.”
“The bear comes right into your village?” Nate once heard of a griz doing such a thing, but it had been an isolated incident. And not even that one had the undiluted gall to drag someone from their lodge.
“Scar is not like most bears, as you will learn for yourself. For now, let us conduct you to our village to await Neota’s return.” The old warrior stopped moving his fingers a moment. “I am called Hototo, or He Who Whistles.” To demonstrate why, he whistled loud enough to be heard in Canada.
“You do that well,” Nate complimented him.
“My grandfather taught me. He was a good whistler, perhaps the best our people ever had. He also taught me how to imitate bird cries.” Hototo demonstrated by imitating a sparrow, a raven, and a hawk. “With my own eyes I saw him call in grouse so we could kill them to eat. And once he called in an eagle to pluck a handful of tail feathers.”
It sounded far-fetched, but Nate had witnessed Crow warriors lure in eagles for the same purpose. Indians were nothing if not resourceful.
“You must be tired after traveling so far. Come. We will show you to Neota’s lodge. He has made it known you are to stay with his family while you are with us.”
Nate would much rather sleep out under the stars, but to refuse would be taken as an insult. “Lead the way.”
A pall of sorrow hung over the Ute encampment. It was apparent in their bent heads and stooped shoulders. In the quiet that prevailed. And in the absence of children. Only a few women were out and about, and those who were made it a point to get to where they were going quickly. Warriors roved in pairs and in threes, armed as if for war with bows and lances and war clubs.
“The children are being kept inside,” Hototo informed Nate.
“Their mothers are afraid of the bear?”
“Everyone is. Scar will sometimes attack a village two or three times in one sleep.”
“But surely not in broad daylight,” Nate signed. Bears did their prowling for prey at night, for the most part. Besides which, no animal in its right mind would dare confront so many humans head-on. It was unthinkable.
“Yes, in daylight, too. Scar has no fear of us. To him we are food. And, I suspect, less than food.”
Nate was going to ask what the old man meant, but they came to a circle of debris and Hototo reined up.
“This is the lodge Scar destroyed last night.”
The fury and force of the bear’s onslaught were remarkable. The lodge had been ripped apart, claw marks in the buffalo hides leaving no doubt as to the culprit. The long poles that braced them were broken and splintered. It looked as if a tornado had struck.
“Were many killed?”
“A father and his three children. We believe the mother was slain also, but Scar dragged her off, so we cannot be sure until Neota and the search party find her.” Hototo gestured. “You may have a closer look if you want.”
Reining the bay over, Nate dismounted. From the look of things, the grizzly had crossed the river and scaled a nearby bank without the sentries or the camp dogs noticing. It then ripped open the rear of the lodge and burst in on the sleeping family. Nate doubted the husband had time to grab a weapon. Within seconds it had been over, and the griz had ripped its way back out again, totally destroying the lodge in the process.
“Two winters ago Scar did this to five lodges at once.” Hototo glumly revealed. “He did not bother to kill all the occupants. Most he crippled by ripping off an arm or a leg. One girl, a pretty child of ten winters, had her ear bit off.”
“You make it sound as if you think Scar mutilates your people on purpose,” Nate signed. Which had to be one of the silliest claims he ever heard. Bears weren’t vengeful. They killed to eat, and that was it.
“He does. Once Scar chewed a warrior’s face half off but did not touch the rest. When the warrior healed, he could not stand to look at himself. In despair he went off into the woods to track Scar and do battle.”
“And?” Nate signed when the old man did not show any indication of finishing the account.
“We never saw the warrior again. He was my oldest son.”
Nate climbed on the bay, and they rode on to one of the finest lodges in the village. The hides were new, the painted symbols as bright as if painted the day before. Nate did not need to be told it belonged to someone of importance and prestige, and he could guess who.
Hototo slid off his pinto and walked to the flap. He called out in Ute and was answered by a woman. “We call her Star At Morning,” he translated in sign as he stepped back. “She is Neota’s woman.”
The flap opened and out she came, so radiant she took Nate’s breath away. Exceptionally lustrous black hair framed an oval face as smooth as marble. Full, red lips curled in greeting, showing off teeth as white as paper. Her dress was of the finest buckskin, cured to perfection and decorated with beads.
“This white man is Grizzly Killer,” Hototo signed to her.
Out of habit Nate doffed his hat. She looked at him quizzically, unsure what it meant. Chiding himself for being a dolt, he jammed the hat back on and signed, “My heart happy meet you.”
Star At Morning’s slender fingers flowed more gracefully than his ever could. “You talk sign talk good, white man.”
Out of the lodge came three mirror images of their mother, the oldest not much over ten. Bashful, they clung to her dress and peeked out at Nate as if afraid he would bite their heads off.
“Fine daughters you have there,” Nate signed. “Do you have sons as well?” He was making small talk. When she frowned and averted her gaze, he thought that perhaps she’d had one but lost it.
“No sons yet, Grizzly Killer, but my husband and I want one very much. Before another winter has gone by, we hope the Great Mystery will smile on our efforts.”
Among some tribes boys were highly valued. So many warriors were lost to war and other mishaps, males were at a premium. So far as Nate knew, though, the Utes weren’t one of them. “I wish you success and happiness. My wife and I have a son and daughter, and we love them dearly.”
Star At Morning raised her hands to sign, but just as she did, from over by the river came a soul-searing shriek.