The screech of a jay brought Winona out of her slumber. She sat up, saw the sunlight streaming in the gap below the window flap, and beamed. Daylight. Now she could check on her nocturnal visitor. Rising, she almost toppled over before discovering both of her legs had also fallen asleep during the night. She leaned on the wall for support, feeling a tingling sensation in both limbs, then shook them to fully restore the circulation.
Once satisfied her legs were back to normal, she gripped the rifle and cautiously opened the door a crack. The bright light made her blink, compelling her to wait until she could see clearly before pulling the door all the way open and stepping into the brisk morning air.
She saw the blood right away, a large dark crimson puddle to the left of the doorway, congealed into an irregular mass from which a few blades of brown grass protruded. So she had hit the beast! She scanned the ground in front of the cabin but saw neither the wolverine nor any more patches of blood.
Encouraged, confident the animal was somewhere off in the brush dying in private as most animals preferred to do, Winona moved to the south and stared at the horse pen. The animals were fine, standing at ease, a few nibbling on bits of feed left over from yesterday.
The danger had passed.
In the brilliant sunshine her fears of the night before seemed childish, more the result of the stress she was under and an overactive imagination than any threat the wolverine had posed. Why had she let herself become so distraught when the beast could never get inside to harm her?
Winona laughed, spun on her heels, and walked back into the cabin to begin her daily routine. Now if only her husband would get back, everything would be perfect.
On the way inside she paused to stare once more at the puddle. The amount of blood convinced her the wolverine was most certainly dead or very close to it.
Most certainly.
~*~
Nate didn’t sleep all night. As the sun crowned the eastern horizon he took hold of the Hawken and stood. Shakespeare and Wind In The Grass were already on their feet and advancing into the field. He moved between them and lightly touched the stock to his shoulder.
“Wind In The Grass wants to be the one to challenge them,” Shakespeare said. “We’ll follow his lead.”
Nate nodded. If the young warrior could count coup and take scalps, particularly Blackfeet scalps, it would elevate his status as a warrior immeasurably. The Flathead had proven his courage and reliability by bringing the horses during the battle at the lake; now, Wind In The Grass would go one step farther, would join the ranks of those privileged warriors who had counted coup on their most dreaded enemies. Either that, or he would die trying.
They advanced twenty yards, spreading out, their weapons ready.
Nate scanned the huge boulders, his thumb glued to the hammer. Suddenly he saw movement and halted. Four buckskin clad warriors walked into view, all young, all armed with bows and knives and tomahawks, all conversing animatedly, perhaps about their plans for raiding the village.
The tallest of the Blackfeet gazed out over the grassy tract and halted, barking words to his fellow warriors. Every one stopped, their features betraying their astonishment. Arrows were hastily yanked from quivers.
Wind In The Grass walked ten more feet. He hefted his bow and hailed them in a mocking tone.
“What’s he saying?” Nate asked.
Shakespeare snorted. “He’s telling them he wants to learn whether the Blackfeet are as brave as everyone says, or whether they are all cowards who only attack from ambush or fight women and children.”
The tall Blackfoot shouted a reply.
“He just told Wind In The Grass his mother was suckled by a mongrel and his father was afraid of his own shadow,” Shakespeare translated.
At a gesture from the tall warrior, the Blackfeet started toward them.
“When will they get to fighting?” Nate asked, every nerve on edge, wishing they would conclude the fight instead of wasting time by shouting insults back and forth.
“Be patient,” Shakespeare said. “Indians aren’t always in a godforsaken rush like most white men. They take their time and do things right. After the challenges are out of the way, you’ll have all the bloodshed you can handle.”
Wind In The Grass and the tall Blackfoot exchanged further insults. All the while, the four Blackfeet came nearer and nearer, negating any range advantage the two Hawkens possessed.
Nate cocked his rifle, his palms feeling clammy, sweat breaking out on his brow. He concentrated on the warrior directly across from him, watching the man’s hands. To his rear a loud fluttering and chirping occurred as a flock of birds took panicky wing from the forest. He thought little of it. Maybe an animal had spooked them, he reasoned.
Suddenly Wind In The Grass vented a fluttering shriek, his personal war cry, and whipped his bow up.
The Blackfeet reacted instantly, elevating their own bows.
At last! Nate took a bead on his target, held the barrel rigid, and fired, the Hawken blasting and bucking in his hands. The warrior had his bow string all the way back when the ball took him in the mouth, twirled him around where he stood, and dropped him in a heap.
Then everything happened incredibly fast. Nate glimpsed three shafts streaking toward them, heard Shakespeare’s rifle crack and saw a second Blackfoot fall, and pivoted to avoid the shaft whizzing at his chest. To his amazement, another arrow flashed out of nowhere first, narrowly missing his torso. It came from behind them!
The arrow fired by the Blackfoot flew past a fraction of a second later and Nate glanced at the tree line, not knowing what to expect but certainly not expecting to find Standing Bear and Bad Face, each nocking arrows to their bow strings. In a rush of insight he realized the awful truth. The duo had trailed them from the village and had chosen this most vulnerable of moments to strike, while their backs were turned and they were preoccupied, to eliminate Standing Bear’s rival and achieve their vengeance for the insults Nate had handed them. Conveniently, the deaths would be attributed to the Blackfeet. “Shakespeare! Wind In The Grass!” he bellowed, aware the Flathead wouldn’t be able to understand but hoping Wind In The Grass would look anyway. “Behind us!”
He began reloading, trying to look every which way at once, appalled by the sight in each direction. One of the Blackfeet was still alive and charging toward them. Shakespeare had seen Standing Bear and Bad Face and was frantically feeding black powder into his rifle. And as he glanced at Wind In The Grass, the young warrior was hit squarely between the shoulder blades by an arrow from the rear.
Nate dropped to his knees, giving his adversaries less of a profile to aim at, and crammed a ball and patch into the rifle. Looking up, he saw his newfound friend pitch into the grass. The Blackfoot was coming on strong, another shaft ready to fly. So were Standing Bear and Bad Face.
Shakespeare’s Hawken spoke, and Standing Bear’s malevolent face developed a new hole in the center of the forehead. The Flathead tripped over his own feet and toppled.
Leaving two foes, Bad Face and the sole remaining Blackfoot.
Nate raised his rifle, about to fire when Shakespeare cried out in pain and he shifted to see his mentor going down, an arrow sticking from the grizzled mountain man’s chest.
Shakespeare!
Livid rage brought Nate to his feet, whirling as he stood, the Hawken tucked tight to his right shoulder. The bead settled on the Blackfoot’s head and he squeezed off the shot. Not even bothering to verify the result, he whirled again, letting go of the Hawken to claw at both flintlocks, the patter of Bad Face’s moccasins in his ears.
The hateful Flathead was eight yards away, an arrow drawn back to his cheek, grinning in triumph.
Nate was a blur. He extended and cocked the pistols, his blood boiling as he fired both at the same instant Bad Face loosed the shaft. His twin balls cored the Flathead’s chest, lifting Bad Face from his feet and hurling him to the ground. Nate felt something tug at his hair, and then the fight was over as abruptly as it had begun. He was the only one standing, shrouded by acrid gunsmoke.
For a moment he stood there, dazed by the savagery and the toll. He thought of Shakespeare and turned, shocked to discover the mountain man sitting up and glaring at the arrow in his body. “Shakespeare!” he cried, running over. “How bad is it?”
“It tickles like hell.”
“Tickles?” Nate repeated in disbelief.
Shakespeare nodded and twisted to afford a clear view. The arrow had actually struck him on the right side of his chest, penetrating at an angle through the flesh covering the ribs. The barbed point, coated with blood, protruded four or five inches from the back of his buckskin shirt, about level with his shoulder blade. “Give me a hand,” he said, gripping the feathered end of the shaft with both hands.
“What do you want me to do?” Nate asked.
“We can’t leave this in,” Shakespeare said, his features flushed. Unexpectedly, he tensed and exerted pressure on the arrow, snapping it off close to his body, gritting his teeth to keep from calling out. The effort weakened him and he sagged.
“You should have let me do that,” Nate chided him, tucking the pistols under his belt. He squatted and placed a hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder.
“Pull out the other half,” the mountain man directed.
“Now?”
“We could wait for spring, but I might not last that long,” Shakespeare said, mustering a grin. “Do it, please. The sooner it’s out, the sooner we can clean and cauterize the hole.”
Frowning distastefully, Nate moved behind him and gingerly grasped the arrow below the point, the blood coating his palms. He feared his hands would be too slippery to maintain a firm purchase, but when he gave the shaft a sharp wrench, it slid right out.
Shakespeare gasped and arched his back, then exhaled loudly and said, “Thanks. You’d better check on Wind In The Grass and the bastards we fought before we finish up with me.”
“Be right back,” Nate promised, and sprinted toward their Flathead friend, dreading what he would find.
The arrow had transfixed Wind In The Grass from back to front, evidently puncturing the heart. A pool of blood rimmed the warrior’s body, spreading outward. His eyes were open, lifelessly fixed on the grass that had been his namesake.
Profound sadness formed a lump in Nate’s throat. Why had Standing Bear and Bad Face gone after Wind In The Grass? he wondered, and reached an obvious conclusion; they hadn’t wanted any witnesses. He thought of Flower Woman and Roaring Mountain and tears moistened his eyes.
Not now! he chided himself, gazing out over the field at the bodies dotting the ground. He must make certain all of their enemies were dead. Quickly reloading the flintlocks, he went from corpse to corpse. Not a flicker of life among them.
“Wind In The Grass?” Shakespeare inquired as he walked back.
Nate simply shook his head.
“Damn. That’s a shame,” Shakespeare said morosely, his hand pressed over the blood stain on his shirt.
“What will happen to his wife and son?”
“Flower Woman is a fine woman. Most likely another warrior will take her into his lodge and raise the boy as his own. Don’t worry. Indian women are tough. They know all about making do.”
Making do? Yes, maybe that was the best way to describe the life of someone who had lost the person they loved most in all creation. Nate headed for the woods. “Don’t move. I’ll have a fire started in no time.”
He set about collecting broken limbs, preoccupied with thoughts of life and death, love and emptiness, happiness and sorrow, and Winona. Of all the worst possible fates that could befall him, being deprived of her company for the rest of his life would be the ultimate injustice. She had become as much a part of him as the air he breathed and the water he drank. Her love was more priceless than all the gold ever mined and the most expensive diamonds ever produced.
Unbidden, memories of New York filled his mind. He recalled married friends who had often neglected their wives and families to go off with their chums, carousing or gambling to all hours. Back then, he’d admired their independence and laughed at their antics. Now, he saw them for what they had been.
Soon he had enough limbs and hastened to Shakespeare’s side. “How are you holding up?”
The mountain man was sitting quietly, staring at a distant majestic mountain. “Just fine. How about you?”
“Me? I wasn’t hit,” Nate said, depositing the branches at his feet.
“No, but I saw the look on your face a while ago. Were you thinking about Winona?”
Nate glanced at him in surprise. “Do you read thoughts now?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “I would be thinking of her if I was in your shoes. As soon as I’m patched up, head for home.”
“First I’ll drop you off at the village,” Nate said. “Blue Water Woman should have you as fit as a fiddle in no time. Bring her for a visit when you can. I’m sure Winona will be delighted to have the company.”
“I bet she will,” Shakespeare agreed. “The poor woman must be bored to death sitting around that cabin with nothing to do but talk to you.”