Six

Moments ago Nate King had tucked his own tomahawk under his belt. His hands were empty, his pistols also. But his left hand was near his knife. With the speed of thought he went to grab for it, then realized he could not possibly bring the knife into play before the Piegan slammed into him. So he brought both arms up, barely in time to cushion the impact as the heavy warrior bowled him clean over.

Nate landed flat, the Piegan astride his midsection. He tried to hurl the warrior from him, and the movement of his head as he lifted it saved his life because he moved it a hair to the left just as the brave’s tomahawk cleaved the air, fanning his right ear. A punch to the Piegan’s flat stomach elicited a grunt. The warrior, snarling, swept the tomahawk on high.

Getting his feet firmly on the ground, Nate bucked as a wild horse might, which threw the brave forward onto his shoulders. Nate was ready. Seizing the man’s thighs as the Piegan slid upward, he heaved, throwing the warrior from him. In an instant Nate was in a crouch and clawing for his tomahawk.

The Piegan divined Nate’s intent and aimed a blow at Nate’s wrist, forcing Nate to pull his arm up or lose his hand. Nate scrambled backwards, trying to gain distance so he could employ a weapon, but the Piegan came after him, swinging constantly, a series of vicious swipes that would have ripped Nate to shreds if they had connected.

In the heat of personal combat a man’s reflexes take over. If he tries to think, to reason out strategy, more often than not he loses his life during the precious seconds he is distracted by his own thoughts. Quite frequently inspiration saves the day, inspiration so elemental it stems from the most basic of instincts, the instinct for self-preservation.

Nate King had a strong sense of self-preservation. That instinct had carried him through dozens of conflicts with men and beasts alike. And it served him in good stead now. For as the Piegan delivered a particularly powerful blow that left the warrior momentarily off balance, Nate took a step toward the man instead of away from him and gouged his fingers into the Piegan’s eyes.

Howling, the Piegan retreated a few feet, blinking furiously as his eyes filled with tears. He brushed his free hand over them, attempting to clear his vision.

In that crucial interval, Nate took the offensive. He leaped, grasped the warrior’s wrist to keep the tomahawk at bay, and drove his other hand, fist clenched, into the Piegan’s jaw. The warrior rocked on his heels. Nate punched again, and a third time, and suddenly the dazed Piegan crumpled, the tomahawk falling loose.

Nate pulled his knife and lifted it for the fatal stab. Helpless at his feet lay the Piegan, ripe for killing. Blade glinting in the firelight, the knife reached its apex, then froze there as Nate paused, his brow knitting. He wanted to bury the blade in the brave, but something stopped him, something stayed his hand at the very moment of making the kill. Whether it was the fact the Piegan was totally helpless or another factor, Nate didn’t know. He just couldn’t bring himself to finish the warrior off.

“Are you all right, son?”

Nate glanced up at Shakespeare and slowly nodded. “Fine,” he said breathlessly. “Just a mite winded.”

“Are you going to kill this rascal, or not?”

“No.”

“Oh?” Shakespeare was perplexed, but they were such close friends that he offered no criticism or objections. Sliding his butcher knife out, he cut several strips from the Piegan’s buckskin shirt and used them to securely bind the warrior’s wrists.

A small boulder offered Nate a place to sit. He mechanically began reloading his pistols and commented, “Well, I guess that’s that.”

“We were lucky.”

“Not lucky enough,” Nate responded, looking at Jenks. “What do you have in mind for this one?” Shakespeare asked, giving the Piegan a smack on the shoulder.

“I don’t rightly know yet.”

“I know what Pepin will want to do.”

As if on cue, the fiery voyageur strolled up to them. Hanging from his belt were three fresh scalps, all dripping blood. He frowned down at Jenks, then glanced at the bound Piegan and looked startled. “What’s this? You’ve spared one of the murdering bastards?”

“Yes,” Nate said.

“How can you, after what they have done?” Pepin laid a hand on his knife. “Leave it to me, my friend. I will take care of this one for you, and to show you my generous nature, you can still have his hair.”

“Don’t touch him,” Nate said.

Pepin paid no attention. “You’re being foolish, and that’s not like you.” Grinning in anticipation, he leaned over the unconscious warrior and inched his knife from its sheath. “This will be all over in no time. A quick cut, and voila! It is done.”

“No!” Nate practically roared, rising. “This one is mine, to do with as I see fit. Touch a hair on his head and so help me I’ll put a ball into you.”

“Into me?” Pepin said in amazement. “But we are friends, are we not? Surely you would not kill me to save one such as this?”

“I don’t want him harmed,” Nate reiterated.

“Most strange,” Pepin said, stepping back and replacing his knife. “I do not understand but I will respect your wishes. Just remember this warning. You are making a mistake if you do not finish this man off here and now. A big mistake.”

“I’ve made them before.”

The Canadian glanced at McNair, who shrugged. “Je ne comprends pas,” he muttered. “I will find the peltries and be right back.” Shaking his head, he walked toward the horses.

Nate finished reloading one pistol and concentrated on the other. Without having to raise his head he knew that his mentor was staring at him, so he said, “Is something the matter?”

“Not with me.”

“With me, you figure?”

“Alas, how is it with you?”

“Meaning?”

“Use every man after his desert and who shall escape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty,” Shakespeare quoted, casting a meaningful look at the Piegan. “In this instance, though, I have to agree with our impulsive friend from the North Country. You’re making a mistake that could prove costly to you and yours. If you let this warrior go, he’ll never rest until he’s buried each and every one of us.”

“He’d have to find us.”

“Never put anything past fickle Fate.”

Annoyed, Nate rose. “I have to fetch my Hawken.” He entered the grass, following the trail of bent stems he had made to the spot where the rifle lay. Picking it up, he blew bits of grass and dirt off the barrel and the stock. Inwardly he was more upset with himself than the others because he knew in his soul they were right. To not slay the Piegan would be plain stupid, yet he balked at the notion and could not explain why. Was it because he was growing too softhearted for his own good? Was it because there had already been enough bloodshed, more than enough to make up for what the band had done to Pointer? Or was there some other reason altogether?

Shakespeare was examining the Piegan when Nate returned. “Uncanny, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“What is?”

“How much this man resembles Drags the Rope. Why, they look enough alike to be twins.”

Nate looked, and it was as if he saw the Piegan for the first time. He wondered why he had not noticed himself, and chalked it up to the heat of combat. Drags the Rope, after all, was one of his oldest friends, a Shoshone brave who had always treated him with the utmost respect and kindness. The two of them were like brothers, and there was nothing the one would not do for the other.

“Two peas in a pod,” Shakespeare went on. He gave the warrior’s left cheek a light slap, then did the same to the right. The Piegan’s eyelids quivered but did not open, so Shakespeare grabbed the man’s chin and shook vigorously until they did.

Instantly the warrior tried to sit up. Shakespeare shoved him back down, and he snarled like a cornered beast and tugged in vain at the strips securing his wrists. When he discovered he was helpless he unleashed a string of furious words at his two captors.

“There’s no need for me to translate,” Shakespeare said. “Suffice it to say he has his dander up.”

“Ask his name,” Nate prompted.

Shakespeare spoke haltingly in the Piegan tongue, then relayed, “Black Badger. And he claims to have taken the scalps of seven whites.”

“He’s at our mercy and he tells you that?”

“No, he boasted of it.”

The warrior went on at length with many angry glares at Nate and nods at his dead companions. On finishing he held his head high, proudly defiant.

“What was that all about?” Nate inquired.

“Black Badger wants you to know that one day he is going to cut open your stomach and rip out your entrails with his bare hands,” Shakespeare reported. “He aims to make all of us suffer for our unprovoked attack, but you he hates the most. No one has ever bested him before. He thinks you must have a special charm given to you by your guardian spirit or else you are an evil spirit yourself.”

“Tell him I’m just a man,” Nate said, “and point out that we were justified in repaying them for what they did to Pointer and for stealing the hides they took.”

Shakespeare passed on the information and listened intently to the Piegan’s answer, his features troubled. “He claims he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. His war party hadn’t set eyes on a single white man since leaving their village until we came along, and they didn’t steal any pelts.”

“Tell him we know better. Tell him that honest men don’t speak with a forked tongue.”

The warrior made a hissing sound on hearing the insult. His next words were barked out, clipped and precise.

“Black Badger says that your father was a Pawnee and your mother was a coyote. If he wasn’t tied, he’d challenge you and let the Great Spirit show which one of you two has a straight tongue.” Shakespeare paused and looked up. “I know an honest man when I meet one and this here is no liar.”

“But what about the packhorse?” Nate mentioned. “War parties travel light and live off the land. Why did they bring an extra horse? What was on that one animal that made its hoofs sink so deep into the ground?”

The question was posed to the Piegan, who answered with bitter resentment.

“One of the warriors brought along a spare because his favorite war horse had just healed up after being wounded in a battle with the Sioux and the man wasn’t sure if it would last the whole journey,” Shakespeare disclosed.

“And the deep tracks?” Nate said.

“They shot an elk their fifth day out, and rather than let the meat go to waste, they packed as much as they could onto the extra horse and brought it along to eat along the way.”

Nate was thoroughly confounded. The warrior’s explanation made perfect sense, but he refused to believe it. If true, it meant that blaming the Piegans had been unjustified. It meant that tracking the war party down had been wasted effort. And it meant something far worse.

Pepin ambled toward them, a thumb hooked in his bright sash. “You will not believe this, my friends,” he said. “I could not find the peltries anywhere. The savages must have cached their plunder along the trail and we will have to backtrack them to find it.”

“Did you happen to see any elk meat lying around?” Shakespeare inquired softly.

“Was that what it was?” Pepin scrunched up his nose. “There’s a lot of overripe meat wrapped in an elk hide over by the horses. Smells so awful a wolverine would pass it up!” He shook his head. “How they ate it is beyond me.”

“Oh, Lord,” Nate breathed, and had to sit down. His gaze fell on Jenks, on the youth’s upturned, slowly stiffening face. The poor greenhorn had given his life needlessly. Nate felt a twinge of remorse, until he remembered that he had objected to going after the war party, that it had been Pepin and Jenks who’d insisted on the mission of vengeance. Had they listened to him, the youth would still be alive. “What’s wrong?” Pepin asked.

Nate told him.

“Can it really be?” the voyageur declared. “Well, c’est la vie. Mistakes happen sometimes, and there is nothing we can do about them except pick up the pieces and go on with our lives. Oui?”

“How can you—?” Nate began, and checked his anger before he made a statement they would both regret.

Shakespeare, touched by the turmoil he read in his friend’s expression, commented, “Before any of us go around blaming anyone else, we all have to remember this worked out for the best.”

“How do you figure?” Nate demanded.

“These Piegans were set to attack a Shoshone village. Think of all the lives we saved by stopping them before they could carry out the raid.”

There was a point Nate had overlooked. They had indeed spared the Shoshones much death and misery, and he should be thankful he had been able to help his adopted people. His guilt started to evaporate. To take his mind off the affair completely, he worked at reloading the Hawken, but someone else wasn’t content to let the matter drop.

“We must also remember, my friends, that Indians such as the Piegans live for war. Counting coup is everything to them, the measure of their manhood, their status in the tribe,” Pepin stated. “When they ride off to attack their enemies they know full well they may never see their village again. We did no worse to them than any other tribe would have done.”

Shakespeare nodded. “Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief.”

“What?” Pepin said.

“Old William S.”

“When will you stop reading those silly plays and buy the works of a real man?” Pepin joked.

“Do you know of one?” Shakespeare asked drolly.

“What? You think Canadians can’t read?” Pepin puffed up his chest. “Try the works of Rousseau. Or if you need your books in English, try Sir Walter Scott. Or Byron’s masterpieces. Either knew more of life than your English bard.”

Nate listened with half an ear to their exchange. It would have surprised many back in the States to learn that reading was a popular pastime for the trappers during the long, cold winter months when trapping was impossible. Books were freely traded back and forth, and in the course of four or five months a man might go through twice as many volumes. Not all the trappers indulged; some were content to lie abed with their Indian wives and not come out from under the blankets for days at a time.

Suddenly, while Pepin and Shakespeare were distracted by their conversation and Nate was busy with his rifle, the surviving Piegan leaped to his feet and bounded toward the end of the hillock with an agility and speed a black-tailed deer would have envied.

“Stop him!” Pepin bellowed. Suiting action to words, he lifted his rifle and took aim on the fleeing warrior’s back.

“No!” Nate said, leaping up and pushing the barrel aside. “We take him alive.”

“Not if we don’t hurry,” Shakespeare urged.

Whirling, Nate sped after the brave. He was upset with himself for not thinking to bind the Piegan’s ankles as well as the wrists, and he wondered if perhaps, deep down, he secretly wanted the warrior to escape. A lone brave was no danger to the Shoshones. Once in the clear, the Piegan would no doubt head for home.

Black Badger glanced back, his face a study in determination. He came to the end of the hill and bore to the left, into the trees flanking it.

Nate was hard pressed to keep the warrior in sight. The thick brush, the quilt work of light and dark shadows, the low-hanging limbs, they all conspired to camouflage Black Badger, to render the man virtually invisible. Fortunately, the pumping motions of the brave’s legs gave him away.

Nate also relied on his ears. The Piegan was making a lot of noise plowing through the undergrowth, cracking twigs underfoot and snapping off small branches. So whenever Nate temporarily lost sight of the brave, he only had to listen to know he was going in the right direction. For several minutes he tried hard to overtake the Piegan without success.

Then the noise stopped.

Nate ran another ten feet before he realized it. He halted, every nerve aquiver. About forty or fifty feet to his rear Pepin was calling his name, but Nate wisely stayed quiet. Black Badger might be close by and Nate didn’t want to give away his position. He crouched, breathed through his nose, and waited for the Piegan to resume the chase. But nothing happened.

Puzzled, Nate scoured every square inch of the foreboding forest. Other than the wind rustling the leaves, there was no sound. He figured Black Badger was lying low, waiting for him to give up and go back. The warrior was in for a surprise. Nate intended to stick on the trail.

Pepin fell silent. There was crashing in the undergrowth to the northeast which moved farther away with each passing second.

Still Nate didn’t budge. He sensed that he was close to his quarry. A little patience, and he could march Black Badger back to the camp. And what then? Would he release the Piegan unharmed? If so, why bother going to all the trouble of hunting the man down?

Nate decided he was being outright foolish. He had no real wish to hurt the Piegan and no real desire to keep him a prisoner, so he might as well let the warrior go. Having made up his mind, he straightened and reversed direction, walking as he normally would, making no attempt to conceal the fact he was leaving so the Piegan would know it too. Ten yards he went, and then a slight noise behind him made him look over his shoulder.

A vague shape disappeared into a cluster of small pines.

Nate knew it was Black Badger. But what was the warrior doing following him? The brave should be in full flight elsewhere, making good his escape. Chuckling at the Piegan’s stupidity, Nate went on. He hadn’t gone more than five yards when his intuition blared and he spun around and saw a figure dive from sight in the undergrowth.

What a fool! Nate reflected, hiking northward. Had the situation been reversed, he would have been half a mile off already, not shadowing the very man he was trying to get away from.

The thought jarred Nate like a physical blow. There was only one reason the Piegan would be doing such a thing. The hunter had become the hunted! Again he stopped and spun, only this time there was no shadow to see. Of course not. The Piegan wouldn’t make the same mistake a third time.

Raising the Hawken, Nate walked backward. He was the one who qualified as a fool for expecting the warrior to flee when Black Badger had clearly stated his intention to get revenge. Somehow, the warrior had slipped his wrists loose from the leather strips. Now the warrior was stalking him, biding time until a chance presented itself to close in.

Shouting for help would have been easy. Nate knew Shakespeare and the Canadian would swiftly come to his aid, but he couldn’t bring himself to call their names. This was strictly between Black Badger and himself. He was the one who had fought the Piegan; he was the one who had spared the brave’s life. If he had done as he should have done and slain Black Badger outright, he wouldn’t be in the tight spot he was in.

The woodland took on a whole new aspect. Every shadow seemed sinister; every rustling leaf might be made by the man intending to take Nate’s life. Nate looked right and left, trying to see everywhere at once. He cocked the Hawken, not caring if Black Badger heard the metallic click or not. Moving backwards as he was, he had to walk slowly, feeling his way so as not to trip over a root or a log. A single mistake would be all the Piegan needed.

Nate’s right heel bumped something. Risking a look, he found a downed branch still bearing leaves. He lifted his leg high to step over, did likewise with the other leg, and kept retreating. Suddenly the vegetation on his left crackled.

Finger on the trigger, Nate pivoted, set to fire, and caught a glimpse of a rabbit leaping madly off. Any other time, he would have laughed at his jumpiness. Now, he grimly scanned the closest trees, his heart beating so loud he swore he could hear it.

Nate’s heel scraped another object. This time it was a log as high as his knees. He had to twist in order to take a full stride, and as he did, during the instant when he took his eyes from the forest and was looking at the log, the night was rent by a bloodcurdling scream, a mixed whoop of feral hatred and rage. Nate tried to swing around, but he was standing sideways when a heavy body slammed into his right shoulder with all the force of a charging buffalo.