Wind In The Grass, clearly startled, leaped to his feet and warmly greeted the aged warrior in their mutual tongue. Stepping forward, he motioned for White Eagle to take a seat.
Nate had noticed Flower Woman stiffen at the chief’s entrance, leading him to deduce this was a singular event. It might well be the very first time White Eagle had paid them a visit. He nodded at the chief and made the sign for a friendly greeting.
White Eagle returned the courtesy as he sat down, then went on in extended sign language while looking at Wind In The Grass. “I am honored to be in the lodge of a man who did so well today. Buffalo Horn has told me that you carefully watched the horses and brought them as soon as you could after the Blackfeet ambushed our war party.”
Pride brightened the young warrior’s eyes as he replied, “I only did what was expected of me.”
“You did well,” White Eagle said, then paused to glance at Nate before continuing. “If you do not mind, Wind In The Grass, we will use sign language to discuss the matter I have come to talk about, out of respect to your other guest.”
“Had you not asked, I would have requested that we do so,” Wind In The Grass responded. “I would not want to be impolite to Grizzly Killer.”
White Eagle nodded. “Very well.” He focused on Nate. “Grizzly Killer, if you would be so kind, I would like to hear your version of the events at Still Lake today.”
“I would be happy to tell you,” Nate replied, although in the back of his mind he wondered why the chief was specifically asking him when any of the surviving warriors could also provide a factual account. Dutifully, he launched into an extended recital of the fiasco, being careful not to attribute blame to anyone, and emphasizing at the end the outstanding job done by Wind In The Grass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Flower Woman swell with affection for her spouse.
White Eagle bowed his head when Nate finished, his forehead furrowed in deep concentration. Finally he looked up and frowned. “Then it is worse than I thought,” he signed.
“What is?” Wind In The Grass inquired.
“Those Blackfeet defeated our band soundly. I suspect they were able to catch some of our scattered horses and are now using them as their own. There is a chance they will mount another attack.”
Nate raised his hands. “Surely the Blackfeet are on their way back to their own country now with the horses and the scalps they collected. Why would they stay in the area?”
“To get more horses and scalps,” White Eagle said. “Blackfeet do not give up easily. I have known them to raid a village one day, then come back the very next day and raid it again.”
Clever tactic, Nate reflected, since no one in the village would expect another attack so soon after the first incident.
“And even if they are not planning a raid on the village, they might be hiding out there waiting to ambush one of our hunting parties or hoping to steal some of our women when they go out foraging for food and herbs.”
“Post more sentries,” Nate proposed. “And do not let any women leave the village unless they are accompanied by warriors.”
“Sound suggestions,” White Eagle said, “ones I have already put into effect.”
“Then all you can do is hope for the best,” Nate signed.
“That, and one more thing.”
“What?”
White Eagle gave each of them a meaningful stare. “I was thinking of sending out two or three men to see if the Blackfeet have departed our territory.”
It took all of Nate’s self-control to keep from frowning and thus insulting the chief. He knew who White Eagle had in mind, and it bothered him. Why couldn’t they send out several of their own warriors? Why rely on him? The answer, ironically enough, was obvious; he was the great Grizzly Killer.
“I have already asked Carcajou and he has said he will go,” White Eagle disclosed. “Would the two of you like to go along with him?”
“Wherever Carcajou goes, I go,” Nate signed.
“And I would be glad to accompany them,” Wind In The Grass answered.
“Good,” White Eagle said. “It would be best if you waited until the rising of the sun. You will need plenty of rest after all you have been through today.”
“We will be ready,” Nate signed, then cocked his head when he heard the drumming of hooves from outside. Moments later the animal halted close to the entrance, footsteps sounded, and in came its rider. He smiled at the familiar figure and said in English, “Hello, Shakespeare.”
The mountain man grinned and nodded. “Has White Eagle told you what he has in mind?”
“Yes.”
“Figured as much. That’s why I rode right over,” Shakespeare said, then switched to sign language. “Greetings, Wind In The Grass and Flower Woman. I am honored to be in your lodge.” He glanced at the chief. “And greetings again to you, White Eagle.”
“Please, sit down,” Wind In The Grass signed.
“Another time, perhaps,” Shakespeare signed. “I cannot stay long.” He squatted beside the cooking fire. “I knew White Eagle was coming here to ask you to go with me to check on the Blackfeet. Have you both agreed?”
“Of course,” Wind In The Grass replied.
Nate let a bob of his chin be his answer.
“I figured you would,” Shakespeare said, “which is why I wanted to let you know right away that we will be leaving after dark.”
Wind In The Grass appeared uneasy at the news. “Tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shakespeare said, and lifted his right arm to point at an angle toward the east, approximately twelve inches above an imaginary horizon. “When the moon is that high.”
Nate could tell from the expressions on the Flatheads that none of them were very fond of the idea, and he knew the reason. Many Indians, as Shakespeare had taught him, rarely traveled at night; most of those in the Rockies and those dwelling on the plains farther east ventured abroad only between dawn and sunset. There were notable exceptions to the general rule, such as war parties who occasionally took advantage of the night to take enemies by surprise, and the dreaded Apaches who lived far to the southwest and reportedly preferred traveling after the sun went down rather than during the day.
“I will be ready,” Wind In The Grass signed.
“Why not wait until morning?” White Eagle asked. “Riding at night is very dangerous. A man cannot see as well, and the grizzlies, the long tailed cats, and the wolves are everywhere.”
“We have a better chance of spotting the Blackfeet from a distance after dark,” Shakespeare noted, and vented a reassuring chuckle. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”
“I would never doubt you, Carcajou,” White Eagle said. “I know you have the welfare of our people at heart.”
“Thank you,” Shakespeare said, standing and gazing at Nate and Wind In The Grass. “I just wanted to let you know ahead of time so the two of you can get some sleep before we leave.”
“Appreciate it,” Nate said.
“I will see both of you later,” Shakespeare signed, and departed hastily.
Nate figured his friend was going to see Blue Water Woman, and he realized he should tell Shakespeare about the argument with Bad Face. But as he put his hands down to push to his feet, he heard Shakespeare’s mount hurry off. Shrugging, he relaxed, certain Blue Water Woman would inform Shakespeare herself.
“I must also be going,” White Eagle noted, rising. He stepped over to the infant first and spoke a few words in the Flathead language that made Wind In The Grass and Flower Woman smiled broadly, and then departed.
No sooner was the chief gone than Flower Woman impulsively moved over to Wind In The Grass and tenderly stroked his cheek. “Do you see?” she signed. “Now you are accounted a true warrior. By tomorrow the whole village will know White Eagle paid us a visit. We will no longer be shunned by our own people.”
“And we owe it all to Grizzly Killer,” Wind In The Grass stated, affectionately placing his hand on Nate’s arm.
Flower Woman gazed fondly at Nate. “I will feed you until you burst.”
“Thank you,” Nate signed. “But we should not overeat if we are riding out after the Blackfeet tonight.”
“Oh. Yes. I did not think,” Flower Woman commented sheepishly, and turned to the fire to begin her preparations.
Nate felt Wind In The Grass give him a squeeze, and then the warrior went over to Roaring Mountain. The sight of the family happily engaged in mundane activities prompted him to think yet again of Winona. He wondered what she was doing.
~*~
Many miles to the south, outside of a sturdy cabin overlooking a serene lake teeming with waterfowl and fish, stood a beautiful Indian woman in a beaded buckskin dress, her dark hair flowing down to her hips. She placed both hands on the mound that had once been her flat stomach and felt movement as the infant growing within kicked.
She smiled, at peace with herself. It would be a boy. She just knew it. And she would be the proudest woman alive when the child came forth into the world, proud because she had honored her husband in one of the highest ways any woman could honor the man she loved; by giving him the sacred gift of a new life, a child to carry on in the footsteps of the parents, to keep the family alive for generations to come.
Her mouth curling downward, she faced northward. Where are you, my husband? she mused. He had said that he would be back after two sleeps at the most. Did he decide to stay with his friend a while longer, perhaps to talk over whatever had been bothering him?
She knew he had been troubled, although he would not come right out and tell her the reason. She had not pried, not made a nuisance of herself by intruding on his private thoughts. Deep down, though, she worried, worried greatly.
What if he was losing interest in her?
The thought sparked intense terror. She often speculated on how much he missed his family back in New York City, wherever that was, and whether he felt any inclination to return to them. He’d tried several times to explain about the place where he had been born and spent most of his life, and once had even drawn a picture on a board with a piece of charcoal to show her how to get there. Even so, New York City seemed unreal to her, an alien place filled with strange people who lived incomprehensible lives, spending their days and nights devoted to the making of the strange paper and metal they worshipped above all else. According to her beloved, very few people in the entire city bothered to make a diligent effort to live in harmony with the Everywhere Spirit.
How could such a thing be? she had often asked herself. How could any people hope to flourish if they denied the source of all that existed? The stories he had told her seemed too incredible to be true, yet she knew he never lied. Stories about lodges made of stone, towering high in the air. Stories about mighty metal animals called steam engines that were expected to one day do the work of horses. And stories about people who were always on the go, from dawn to dusk, never giving themselves a moment’s rest.
In a way, the white race reminded her of ants. As a young girl, she had spent many an idle hour observing an ant hill, watching the tiny creatures go about their lives, always in motion, always working, working, working, never taking time to enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Was it possible her husband missed such a distressing life? Did he secretly pine to go back? It would explain his unusual moody behavior of late. And she had to be honest; she knew of many Indian women who had taken white men as husbands, and in most of the cases the men had left the women after only a year or so to head east and never returned.
What if the same fate befell her?
She anxiously bit her lower lip and lightly smacked her right palm against her thigh. This was not the way for the wife of the mighty Grizzly Killer to act. She must not give in to her fear. To do so insulted him, insulted their love. He had been true to her from the first day they met, and in the depth of her soul she felt he would remain true until the day they died.
Turning, she walked toward the south end of the cabin where the pen holding their horses was situated. If she kept busy, she wouldn’t have time for such foolish thoughts. She hummed, trying to cheer herself up, and rounded the corner.
The eight animals were idly munching on grass she had fed them earlier. A few gazed at her, then resumed eating.
Satisfied, she retraced her steps to the front door and just reached it when a tremendous commotion erupted at the lake. She pivoted, her eyes narrowing, seeking the source.
Every bird on the lake and in its immediate vicinity had taken wing. Ducks, geese, gulls, and others were flapping into the sky, voicing a chorus of distinct quacks and cries.
She saw nothing to account for the peculiar behavior, which worried her. There might be a predator abroad, perhaps a panther or a grizzly. If so, she couldn’t afford to take any risks. She entered the cabin, then closed and locked the door. To the right, leaning against the wall, was a loaded flintlock. She patted the barrel, reassured by its feel, remembering the lessons her husband had given her in how to shoot the cumbersome gun and how pleased he’d been when one afternoon she’d consistently hit a circle he had carved in a tree from a distance of thirty yards. He had laughed and hugged her and kissed her until her lips had been sore.
Oh Nate, she wondered, where are you?