Nate King was certain he was going to die, certain he would momentarily feel the warrior’s shaft tear through his torso. He’d left the Hawken propped against the nearby tree, perhaps five feet away, so near, yet not near enough to grab before the Ute let the arrow fly. But he still had a flintlock. He started to rise, his left hand falling to the pistol, when the Ute barked a single word. The warrior now had the arrow aimed at his face and was advancing swiftly. There was no way the man could miss at such close range, even if Nate tried to leap aside.
The Ute spoke a string of words and motioned with the bow, indicating Nate should lift his hand away from the pistol.
Nate hesitated. Evidently the Ute intended to take him alive, which might buy him time to turn the tables. One thing was for sure; he’d rather chance being able to catch the warrior unawares later than the right then and there.
Reluctantly he raised his hands to shoulder height. The Ute halted eight feet off and again addressed him.
“I don’t savvy,” Nate said in English. Then, in Shoshone, “I do not understand.”
By the warrior’s expression it was obvious he had no idea what Nate had said. The Ute gestured with the bow and bobbed it up and down.
At first Nate failed to comprehend. Then the man made a jabbing motion at his waist, and the meaning became all too clear. He was being instructed to dispose of the flintlock and his other weapons. Using two fingers and exaggerated, slow movements so the Ute could see he was not about to do anything rash, Nate pulled the pistol out and gently placed it on the ground. He did likewise with his butcher knife and the tomahawk, then stepped back when the Ute indicated he should do so, and kept on stepping until the Ute signified he should stop.
The warrior appeared to relax slightly.
Nate held himself perfectly still and waited for the Ute to make the next move. He expected the warrior to either give a yell to attract the rest of the band or else force him to turn and kneel so the Ute could bind him, although what the man would use he had no idea since the only other article the warrior had was a knife. To his amazement, the man abruptly lowered the bow to the ground and straightened with his palms held outward to show he had peaceful intention.
“Where is he?” the Ute then inquired, using sign language. “If you can talk with your hands, tell me.”
So surprised was Nate that he simply stood there until the warrior repeated the question. Collecting his wits, Nate finally signed in response, “Who do you mean?”
“The white devil whose tongue knows no truth,” the Ute elaborated.
“Solomon Cain,” Nate muttered in English. His hands flowed in flawless sign. “If I knew where he was I would cut out his tongue and feed it to coyotes.”
Now it was the warrior’s turn to seem dumbfounded. “He is not your friend?”
“No.”
“But you cut him down and rode off with him.”
“That was my mistake. If I had known he would try to split my skull and steal my horse I never would have helped the dog,” Nate signed, and was mystified when the Ute’s features hardened.
“He does it to his own people too. Truly he is a man without honor.”
“Would you care to explain?”
The Ute’s hands moved. “I am Flying Hawk,” he began.
“You are the brother of the woman the dog took as his wife,” Nate interrupted, and tensed when the Ute suddenly rushed toward him. He thought the man was about to attack, but the warrior halted a yard away.
“You saw her? You saw Smoky Woman?”
“No. He told me about her.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he stole her and made her his wife, and that you have been after him ever since.”
Flying Hawk had the look of a man who wanted to kill something. Or someone. “False Tongue has told the truth for once. My sister was out with other women gathering berries when he took her against her will. All the men in our village went after them but he was too clever for us. That was when I took a vow to find him and save Smoky Woman no matter how long it takes. Some of my friends agreed to go with me. We have been hunting him for a long time.”
“And you finally found him,” Nate signed when the warrior stopped and bowed his head.
“Yes. We took him by surprise and hung him from a tree while we decided what to do with him. Some of my friends wanted to cut off his fingers and gouge out his eyes unless he told us where Smoky Woman was. I was afraid he would die before he told us and then we would never find her. He heard us talking. He claimed she was at his camp, over the next hill. So we rode off to see, leaving him there since we expected to quickly return.”
Nate didn’t need to hear the rest. That was when he had happened along and set Cain free, ruining any hope Flying Hawk had of rescuing his sister. “I am sorry,” he signed. “Had I known, I never would have helped him.”
Flying Hawk studied Nate for a moment. “I do not blame you, white man. False Tongue is as clever as a fox.”
“False Tongue? Is that the name your people have given him?”
“It is the name I gave him after he lied to me.”
“How long has he had your sister?”
“Four moons.”
Four months! Nate could well imagine the emotional misery the warrior must have gone through since the abduction. “How old is your sister?”
There was a haunted aspect to the Ute’s dark eyes when he answered. “She has lived sixteen winters.”
Nate’s initial reaction was to think, “She’s so young.” Then he reminded himself that Indian maidens often married at that age or even younger. Sometimes the marriages were forced on them by parents eager to have their daughters marry prominent warriors or chiefs for the prestige involved. Frequently the young brides found themselves marrying men who already had one or two wives, which was a perfectly acceptable practice in many tribes since there was a chronic shortage of men. And now and then a maiden would be captured by enemy warriors in a raid, taken back to their village, and made a bride whether she liked the idea or not.
“I hoped you could tell me where she is,” Flying Hawk signed forlornly. “That is why I spared you when I should have killed you for shooting two of my friends. I should still kill you, but you impress me as being an upright man. So you may go in peace. But should we ever meet again, know that I will slay you on the spot.”
The man’s acute desperation was almost contagious. Nate pondered for several seconds, then signed, “Where are your friends? What will you do now?”
“My friends took the bodies of those you killed back to our village. I refuse to go back until I find Smoky Woman.” Flying Hawk paused. “While I was searching for sign of False Tongue I came on your tracks and followed them. Now I will continue my hunt.”
“All by yourself?”
“My friends will be back in nine or ten sleeps.”
“How would you like some help until they return?”
“You?”
“Me.”
“Why would you help me, white man? My people and yours have long been enemies.”
Nate glanced past the Ute, into the trees, where the warrior’s horse was tied. If he was to convince Flying Hawk, he must be completely honest. “I have two reasons. First, False Tongue stole my horse and I want to get it back. On foot I would stand little chance. Riding double with you means we can cover much more ground faster.”
“And your other reason?”
“I am a white man, true. But I am also an adopted Shoshone. My wife is Shoshone. I have great respect for the Indian ways.” Nate paused to arrange in his head how he would phrase the next sequence of signs. “I do not like to see any man—white or Indian—do evil. What False Tongue did to your sister was very wrong. He deserves to pay for his wickedness and she must be freed.”
In the protracted silence that ensued, Nate heard sparrows chirping gaily and the chattering of a squirrel. He couldn’t tell by the Ute’s impassive features whether his argument had prevailed.
“Your words show you to be a good man,” Flying Hawk signed after a bit. “But I do not know if it would be wise for us to join forces.”
“Do you happen to know a Ute named Two Owls?”
Flying Hawk blinked. “Yes. He is chief in another village and an important man among my people. Why?”
“He and I joined forces once some moons ago against the Blackfeet. I did not betray his trust. I would not betray yours.”
“You are Grizzly Killer?”
“I am.”
The warrior came a stride nearer and examined Nate closely. “Two Owls told us about you at a gathering of all our people. He said you are the only white he has ever known whose tongue always speaks the truth. He said you have the body of a white man but the spirit of an Indian.”
Nate made no comment. He was recalling how Two Owls had helped him save Shakespeare McNair and another man from a war party of Blackfeet that had penetrated deep into Ute territory.
“Very well,” Flying Hawk suddenly declared, thrusting out his arm and resting his hand on Nate’s shoulder. Then he signed, “Until we find my sister and your horse, we will be as brothers. And perhaps, when this is done, I will go back to my people and tell them the same thing Two Owls did, that not all whites have bad hearts.”
Smiling in gratitude, Nate touched the Ute’s arm. “You will not regret your decision. Between us we will catch False Tongue and make him pay.” He nodded at the fire. “Perhaps you would like some food before we start? I would be happy to share my rabbit.”
“Thank you. I accept,” Flying Hawk replied. He walked off and picked up his bow and arrow, sliding the latter into the quiver on his back. The bow went over his left shoulder. As he came back he pointed at Nate’s wounded shoulder. “I am glad my arrow did not kill you.”
In the act of stepping to his weapons, Nate stopped. “You were the one who shot me?”
“Yes. I tried to get you through the heart but you ran like an antelope.”
“The next time I will try to run slower,” Nate joked. He slid the pistol under his belt, recovered the tomahawk and knife, and squatted by the fire, across from the Ute.
“You took the arrow out all by yourself?” the warrior asked, staring at the wound.
“Yes.”
Flying Hawk folded his arms on top of his knees. “You have much courage. It is a pity most white men are not like you.”
Soon Nate had more chunks of meat roasting over the fire. He picked up the stick he had dropped when the Ute appeared and brushed bits of grass off the pieces of rabbit, then heated them again. Not a word was spoken during the meal. Nate was self-consciously aware that the warrior stared at him the whole time. He, in turn, made it a point to act as natural as he could. Eventually the Ute asked him an unexpected question.
“Will more of your people come to these mountains?”
“Many more, I am afraid. Once the whites who live east of the Great River learn how beautiful and wonderful this land is, they will flock here by the thousands.”
Flying Hawk wiped his greasy fingers on his leggins. “I have been told this would happen but I hope you are wrong. My people, as well as the Cheyennes, the Kiowas, the Sioux, and many other tribes will not let your people drive us off. We will fight to keep our land.”
“I know.”
“On which side will you fight when that happens?”
“I have not given the matter much thought.”
“You should.”
The man had a point, Nate reflected as he doused the fire. What would he do if it came to pass? The mere notion of hordes of settlers spreading out over the plains and the mountains, staking claim to every available square foot of land, was enough to give him the jitters. Part of the appeal the wilderness made to men like him was the virtue of soothing solitude. The vast expanses of shimmering grasslands and towering peaks stirred a man’s soul like no towns or cities ever could. Out here a man could live as he pleased, accountable to no one but himself and his Maker. There weren’t countless laws to obey, countless rules to follow. Freedom— pure, unadulterated freedom—was there for the taking. All that would change once civilization arrived. A man would be at the mercy of politicians, and to Nate’s way of thinking that was a fate worse than death.
With the Hawken tucked under his left arm, he followed the Ute to where the sturdy roan waited. He waited for Flying Hawk to reach down, then swung up behind the warrior.
They rode to the northwest, over hills, through valleys, and around mountains, always on the lookout for tracks. Toward noon they scaled a steep slope, crossed a low saddle, and came out on a splendid high country park lush with spring growth. There Flying Hawk reined up and twisted so Nate could see his hands.
“There is a spring here. We will stop and rest my horse, then go on.”
At the bottom of a cliff on the north side of the park was a crystal-clear pool of ice-cold water. Nate dropped to the ground, walked to the water’s edge, and sank onto all fours to drink. As he lowered his face he happened to glance to his left. His thirst was immediately forgotten. For clearly imbedded in the soft soil were large hoof prints not over a day old. Rising, he signed, “You are closer to your sister than you think. Look at these.”
Flying Hawk’s face lit up like the full moon. He ran his fingers lightly over the tracks, then stood and slowly walked in a half-circle, reading the sign. “Do you think these were made by your horse?”
“I would say so, yes. I know the tracks of my animal as well as I do my own.” Pivoting, Nate gazed the entire length of the park. At the north end reared a seemingly impassable barrier of bleak, barren mountains. Either there was another way out of the park further on, or else Solomon Cain was hiding somewhere near those mountains.
The Ute came to the same conclusion. “We have him, Grizzly Killer. You have brought me luck. After searching for so long I find him this easily.”
“Do not get your hopes too high. As you say, False Tongue is exceedingly clever. Who knows where this trail will lead?”
“We shall see.”
Flying Hawk pulled the roan away from the spring and climbed up. He impatiently gestured for Nate to join him, and at a gallop they rode northward, the roan’s hoofs drumming dully on the thick carpet of grass. Occasionally they saw clear tracks, but for the most part the prints were smudged or partials. Cain, after leaving the spring, had cut catty-corner across the park toward a foreboding mountain crowned by three separate pinnacles of rock that resembled the three prongs of a pitchfork.
They lost the trail at the base of the mountain where the grass gave way to loose rock and hard-packed earth.
The Ute stopped and peered upward. “He must be somewhere up there.”
So it seemed, but Nate couldn’t see why Cain would have picked such a godforsaken spot to hide out. True, plenty of water and grass was readily available in the park. But the oddly sinister mountain, on which not so much as a single weed or blade of grass grew, was fit neither for man nor beast alike. He looked at Flying Hawk, expecting the warrior to begin climbing at any moment, and was startled when he saw the Ute give a barely perceptible shudder.
“I know this place,” Flying Hawk signed. “My people call it the Mountain of Death. No one has ever gone up it and returned.”
Nate straightened and smiled. So that was it! The wily Cain had picked a spot taboo to the Utes, using their primitive superstition to his advantage. “Are there caves on this mountain?” he asked.
“Let us find out.”
The lower portion of the facing slope proved easy for the roan. Above it the going was too steep, compelling them to dismount and walk. Small stones clattered out from under their feet. So did small puffs of dust. Their moccasins were caked by the time they came to the mouth of a ravine. In the earth at the entrance were fresh tracks.
“We have him!” Flying Hawk signed excitedly.
Nate hoped so. Once he had Pegasus back he would head for home, tell his wife what had transpired, then resume his search for choice areas to trap beaver far to the northwest. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. Venturing into Ute country was tempting Fate, a notoriously harsh mistress. From now on out, he decided, he would stay shy of Ute territory unless he had a damn good reason for doing otherwise.
In the confined space between the high ravine walls the clopping of the roan was unusually loud. Nate scanned the rims above, bothered at being a potential target should Cain be perched up there with a rifle. He grinned when he spotted the end of the defile and hefted the Hawken.
Flying Hawk had pulled a shaft from his quiver and notched it on the bowstring.
A strong breeze struck them, growing in intensity the closer they drew to whatever lay beyond the ravine. Nate tugged his hat down and narrowed his eyes to reduce the bright glare off the ravine walls. Then they were there, and he stopped in midstride on seeing the landscape that unfolded before their astounded eyes.
An arid wasteland of gorges, plateaus, and bluffs formed a virtual maze of inhospitable terrain stretching for miles in all directions. Scattered bushes and scrub trees comprised the only plant life. A solitary golden eagle soared on high on the air currents. Otherwise, nothing moved. The breeze, a hot blast of wind, hit them full force.
“There!” Flying Hawk signed with the bow in his left hand, and pointed using his right.
Nate screened his eyes from the sun, using his palm, and saw the reason the warrior was so excited. Far out in the wasteland rose a thin tendril of white smoke, so faint as to be almost indistinguishable.
“False Tongue!” the Ute said. “Now I know why I could not find him. He is even more clever than I believed.” He replaced the arrow, slung the bow, and swiftly mounted. “Hurry, Grizzly Killer. My sister is close. I can feel she is.”
Nate mounted also, and the roan broke into a gallop, raising a cloud of dust in their wake. Nate tapped Flying Hawk on the shoulder and bobbed his head at the dust.
Scowling in displeasure, Flying Hawk slowed.
Keeping the smoke in sight proved difficult. Unless the angle of the sun was just right they would lose track of it. Often they had to skirt bluffs, and then had to look hard to find the smoke again when they were in the open. Several times they passed through gorges and were denied sight of the wispy column for minutes on end.
Nate feared the fire would be put out before they got close enough to pinpoint its location. Mile after mile fell behind them. The roan began to tire, its head drooping. Nate himself felt as if he was roasting alive. Often he mopped his brow and ran a hand over his neck. He was sorry now that they hadn’t taken the time to drink their fill back at the spring in the park.
After two hours of grueling travel, Nate was about to advise Flying Hawk to stop and rest when the wind brought to his sensitive nose the acrid aroma of burning wood. The Ute smelled it too, because he stiffened. They rode for another hundred yards, to a point where the dry wash they had been following made a sharp turn to the right around a rise. The smoke appeared to be wafting skyward on the other side.
Flying Hawk drew rein and slid down. He left the roan standing there and beckoned for Nate to make haste.
And Nate did, although he didn’t like rushing in when common sense dictated they should go slowly and warily. The element of surprise was essential if they were to take Cain without a fight. That is, if the Ute wanted to avoid bloodshed, which he doubted. He caught up with the warrior as they neared the turn, and they both dropped onto their hands and knees and crawled to where they could see past the rise.
The fire was fifty yards off, outside of the dark mouth to a large cave situated in a rock wall over a hundred feet high. Pegasus and two other horses were tethered outside the cave, in the shade, close to a small pool.
Nate saw a shadowy figure move in the cave mouth, and seconds later a beautiful Indian woman in a beaded buckskin dress, her raven hair flowing down to her hips, emerged carrying a tin pot and walked to the fire.
Flying Hawk could barely contain himself. “That is my sister!” he signed, beaming broadly. “But where is False Tongue?”
Shrugging, Nate scoured the area but saw no trace of the man they sought. Suddenly a shadow fell across them, and glancing up he felt his breath catch in his throat.
Looming tall on the brim of the wash, a cocked flintlock held steady in each tanned hand, wearing buckskins and moccasins and smirking in triumph, was Solomon Cain.