Nate had the Hawken up and aimed in the blink of an eye, and he was all set to cock the hammer when he realized the savage was backing toward him. The man hadn’t seen him yet. He surmised the Indian had snuck close to the cave entrance, perhaps to see or overhear what was going on inside, and now was sneaking off to make a report to the rest of the band. Lowering the Hawken, he drew his tomahawk. Stealth and silence were in order. Should those eating the deer hear a commotion, they would be on him before he could reach safety.
He marveled at how quiet the savage was. Strain his ears as he might, he heard nary a whisper of sound. Nate held the tomahawk flat in front of him and smelled the odor of drying blood. There had been no time to wipe the tomahawk clean after the battle, and he certainly couldn’t do so now.
Suddenly the savage turned away from the cliff, bent at the waist, and sprinted off to the south, his gaze on the cave the whole time. Soon the night swallowed him up.
Nate felt some of the tension drain from his body. That had been too close for his liking! How lucky the man had been more intent on not being spotted by someone within the cave than on his surroundings! Tucking the tomahawk back under his belt, Nate gripped the rifle and the pot and resumed crawling.
From the look of things, the savages intended to stay there for a while. They were more persistent than Nate had imagined. And when he regarded the situation from their perspective, he realized they had everything to gain and little to lose by waiting around. Eventually he and the others would run out of food, and they would run out of water too if the savages thought to keep a closer watch on the spring.
Nearing the barricade, Nate whispered, “It’s me!” so Flying Hawk wouldn’t put an arrow into him. Then, rising, he ran the remaining distance and sank low behind the barricade with water sloshing over the rim of the pot.
The Ute and his sister were also hunched low, glaring at one another. Evidently they’d had another argument. Neither moved for fully half a minute, until Smoky Woman turned, took the pot without speaking, and hurried off, carefully holding the pot so she wouldn’t spill it.
Nate leaned the Hawken against the barricade and rose high enough to peer over the top. Someone had to keep watch, and Flying Hawk was too preoccupied. Nothing moved out there. Craning his neck, Nate tried to catch a glimpse of the four savages consuming the doe, but they were too far off. A hand touched his right shoulder.
The warrior had moved closer and now employed sign, holding his hands close to Nate’s face so Nate would have no problem reading the gestures.
Nate concentrated so he wouldn’t miss a one. From long practice he mentally filled in the articles and other words that were lacking in sign language but which were needed to flesh out the statements into their English equivalent. In this instance Flying Hawk signed, “Sister want go white country with False Tongue. Question. Whites make her heart bad.”
Sign language, incorporating as it did hundreds of hand gestures and motions, could convey a nearly endless variety of meanings and sentiments through the proper combination of symbols. But there were deficiencies, one being that in sign there were no gestures for “what,” “where,” “when,” and “why.” The sign for “question” was used instead. So when someone wanted to ask, “What are you called?” they would sign, “Question you called.”
There were others areas in which sign language was lacking, from an English language standpoint, and some trappers had difficulty in reading and using sign because of this. They were accustomed to structuring their talk in a certain way and they couldn’t get the hang of doing it differently. Others, like Shakespeare McNair, were as adept as the Indians themselves.
Nate raised his arms and replied. “Your sister will be treated kindly by some, not so kindly by others.”
“She should stay with her own people. I do not like this.”
“It might be for the best,” Nate said, although he wasn’t entirely convinced that it would be. Half-breeds were not highly regarded in either culture. Whites tended to treat breeds with contempt, while the attitude of the Indians varied from tribe to tribe. The Shoshones and Apaches accepted them; the Utes and Blackfeet did not.
“I will not let her go.”
“She is a grown woman. She can do as she pleases.”
“That is the white way, not ours.”
“Should you stand in her way if her love for False Tongue brings her happiness?”
“She must not be permitted to shame our family and dishonor our people.”
Sighing, Nate let the subject drop. It was a hopeless case, he reflected. The warrior’s prejudices were too ingrained. He suddenly recalled he had promised to tend Cain’s wound. “Keep watch,” he signed. “If they attack again give a shout.”
Tendrils of acrid smoke performed aerial dances in the main chamber. Although Smoky Woman had intentionally kept her fire small, the lack of ventilation was causing the smoke to accumulate swiftly. Steam rose off the water in the pot, giving the air a muggy feel.
Solomon Cain was on his back on a thick buffalo robe. He looked up at Nate and asked, “Are the sons of bitches still out there?”
Nate nodded. “And I suspect they have no intention of leaving any time soon. They might try to starve us out.”
“I’m not about to sit in here until I’m too weak from hunger to lift my guns. We’ll make a break for it come first light.”
“I thought you’d decided against that notion.”
Cain shifted to make himself more comfortable. “A man can change his mind, can’t he? I’ve been lyin’ here thinkin’, and I have me a plan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You let Smoky Woman ride double with you. Your horse is the best of the bunch, and even with her on board it’ll do right fine. Until we hit cover I’ll ride on one side of you and Flying Hawk will ride on the other. Between us we’ll keep those pesky devils off your back.”
“That’s your plan?”
“Do you have a better one?” Cain said gruffly. “We sure as hell can’t stay in here and rot. Sure, we might be able to hold out for a spell, but think of the horses. They can’t go for long without food and water. We have to cut out, if only for their sake.” Cain paused. “Unless you want to try and reach the mountains on foot.”
No, Nate most definitely didn’t. Kneeling, he placed the Hawken at his side and did some calculations. On foot, during the daylight hours, it would take them six hours or better to get to the eastern range, six hours of grueling travel over hot terrain with the savages dogging then every step of the way. If they went at night the journey would take even longer, but the blistering heat wouldn’t be a factor.
“What do you say?” Cain prompted.
“Let’s wait and see how things go,” Nate hedged, bending over. “Right now we have to get your shirt off.”
“Use your knife. I ain’t about to try liftin’ my arm.”
The blade sliced into the buckskin garment easily enough. Nate started at the elbow and sliced upward, using exquisite care so as not to cut Cain. Once he had a slit from Cain’s elbow to Cain’s neck, he peeled back the buckskin for a closer examination. In the flickering light of the candles he saw a nasty gash, over an inch deep, above the clavicle. Blood still trickled out.
“Ain’t a pretty sight, is it?” Cain asked.
“I’ve seen worse.”
“In a way, Providence was lookin’ out for my hide. The vermin who did this was tryin’ to bash in my head. Nearly caught me by surprise.” Cain grunted when Nate touched the gash. “Go easy there, hoss. This coon ain’t been in such pain since the time I tangled with a grizzly near the Green River. He came chargin’ out of the brush and took a swat at me. Just one, mind you. That was enough to send me flyin’ over twenty feet. About stove in all my ribs, he did.”
Nate glanced at Smoky Woman. “Is the water boiling yet?”
“No.”
“Let me know when it is,” Nate said, and cast about for something to make bandages from. Everything except the buffalo hide and Cain’s possibles bag had been taken out to use in building the barricade. “What do you have in there?” he asked, nodding at the big leather bag.
“The usual. My pipe and kinnikinnick, some sewing needles, a spool of thread, pemmican and whatnot. Why?”
Nate told him.
“I got me a white Hudson’s bay blanket in my supplies. A three-pointer. Best blanket I ever owned, but it won’t do me no good if I’m gone beaver. Look for a parfleche with a bunch of blue beads on the front in the shape of a raven’s head. It’s stuffed in there.”
“I’ll be right back,” Nate said, and went to the barricade. Flying Hawk was now standing, leaning against the wall at the point where the barricade began. The Ute offered no comment as Nate searched until he found Cain’s parfleche. Pulling out the heavy blanket, he hurried back.
By then the water was boiling vigorously. Nate cut off a towel-sized piece of blanket, partially filled a tin cup with scalding water, and squatted next to Solomon Cain. “I don’t need to tell you this will hurt like the dickens.”
“At least it ain’t an arrow in the hump-ribs.”
Cutting another, smaller, square off the Hudson’s bay blanket, Nate gave it to Cain. “Something to clamp down on,” he advised.
“You’re right considerate.”
First Nate had to wash the wound thoroughly. He did this by dipping the improvised towel in the tin cup, then applying the blanket to the gash. Cain’s eyes bulged and he uttered intermittent gurgling noises. The water in the cup became red with blood and Nate refilled it. Presently he had the wound clean, so he put the cup down. “I going to try and set the bone,” he announced.
Cain merely grunted.
The task wasn’t for the squeamish. Nate had to slide two of his fingers into the gash until he touched the sagging broken bone, which he then tugged upward until he felt it make contact with the other half. His skin crawled when he felt the two sections grate together.
Beads of perspiration dotted Cain’s forehead and his hair hung limp and damp. Twice he arched his spine and turned the color of a setting sun. When the sections of bone touched he let out a strangled cry, his eyelids quivering, then slumped back, barely conscious.
Nate extracted his fingers and wiped them on his leggins. Next he cut four long, wide strips off the blanket. As he began to apply one to Cain’s shoulder, Smoky Woman came over.
“Let me.”
The eloquent appeal in her eyes convinced Nate to relinquish the strips. Cradling the Hawken in the crook of his elbow, he walked around the bend. Pegasus nudged him, trying to get his attention, but he walked on to the barricade. “False Tongue will be fine before a moon has passed,” he signed.
Flying Hawk scowled. “It would have been better had he been killed. My sister would not abandon her people then.”
“And what about her baby? Do you want her to raise the child by herself?”
“There will be no baby.”
The vehemence with which the warrior gestured alarmed Nate. “You would not harm an infant?”
“There will be no baby,” Flying Hawk reiterated, and turned away to stare out into the night.
Deeply disturbed, Nate walked to the horses and pretended to be interested in the Palouse while his mind whirled with the dreadful implication of the Ute’s statement. Should he warn Cain and Smoky Woman or keep his mouth shut? The squabble was none of his affair but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing, not with the life of an innocent at stake.
During the next hour nothing of note transpired. Nate checked on Cain and found him slumbering peacefully, Smoky Woman sitting at his side. Flying Hawk appeared to be in a foul mood so Nate left him alone.
As more time elapsed and the savages failed to attack, Nate knew his guess about their strategy had been accurate. The Indians were going to starve then out. He made a check of the food and figured there was enough to last then for a week if they ate sparingly. But, as Cain had pointed out, there was no feed for the horses.
The harrowing events of the day and night took their toll. Nate’s eyelids became leaden. He made bold to approach Flying Hawk and suggested they take turns keeping watch in order for each of them to catch some sleep. The Ute agreed and volunteered to stand guard first.
Spreading his blanket near the horses, Nate reclined on his back, his head propped in his hands, and stared at the inky ceiling. Sometimes he had to wonder what could have possessed him to venture into the brutal heart of the untamed wilderness when back in New York City he could have lived in perfect safety and comfort! His Uncle Zeke had been the one who enticed his by implying he would acquire the greatest treasure a man could own. And off he’d gone, mistakenly believing Zeke was referring to gold, when all the time Zeke had been talking about an entirely different and greater treasure, the priceless gift of untrammeled freedom.
Was true freedom worth all he went through simply to stay alive? The question itself was ridiculous. He remembered life in New York City, with countless thousands scurrying to and from work each day, toiling ceaselessly to make ends meet, to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. Yes, they lived in safety and relative comfort, but at what price? They were slaves to the money they earned, caught in a vicious circle from which there was no escape unless by some miracle they should become rich, in which case they would hoard their wealth like squirrels hoarded pine cones and nuts, as miserly with their riches as they had been in their poverty.
He started to yawn, and suppressed it lest he make a sound. Closing his eyes, he envisioned his wife’s beautiful face floating in the air above him, and he wondered if he would ever see that face again.
Sleep abruptly claimed him.
~*~
The light touch of something on his shoulder brought Nate up with a start. His hand closed on the Hawken as he blinked and looked around to see Flying Hawk beside him.
“Your time,” the Ute signed.
“Oh,” Nate mumbled in English. He shook his head to clear lingering cobwebs, then stood and motioned for Flying Hawk to use his blanket. After a moment’s hesitation the warrior accepted the offer.
By the position of the few stars Nate could see from behind the barricade, he estimated the time to be close to four in the morning. Flying Hawk had stood guard for more than half the night. Settling down where he commanded a clear view of the area outside, Nate leaned the Hawken within easy reach.
Soon dawn would break. The temperature would climb steadily until by noon they would be sweltering even in the cave. Without water they would be parched by sundown.
Idly glancing to his left, he was surprised to see the dead savages had been piled in the gap between the barricade and the far wall, effectively blocking off the opening. Flying Hawk had been busy during the night. As he stared at the corpses his memory was jogged. Somewhere, sometime, he’d heard something about Indians who were just like or very similar to these. But where? Then he recollected the Rendezvous of ’27. Or was it ’28? In any event, he’d been seated around a campfire with nine or ten other men listening to Jim Bridger relate various adventures.
At one point Bridger told one of his favorite stories, about the time back in ’24 when he and a group of friends took to arguing over how far Bear River went. Bets were wagered. Bridger was picked to go find out. He shot a buffalo and stretched the skin hide over a framework of willow branches to make a bullboat. Then off he went.
Mile after mile Bridger followed the river until he came to a huge body of water no white man had ever laid eyes on before. When he dipped his hand in he was astonished to find the water was salty. Bridger had just discovered Big Salt Lake, as the trappers usually referred to it.
During the course of this story Bridger had talked about various Indian tribes inhabiting the region, and then repeated a story told to him by a Snake warrior. West of the Salt Lake, the Snake had claimed, lived a tribe known as the Root Eaters, or Digger Indians, who went around stark naked and lived on roots, seeds, fish, frogs, and whatever else they could find. Some of them were supposed to be as hairy as bears. The Snake had spoken of then with contempt, comparing them to animals.
Were these the same tribe? Or another just like the Diggers? Bridger had not mentioned anything about the Root Eaters having a taste for human flesh, as the bones in the back chamber indicated these did. Perhaps, Nate reasoned, his imagination was getting the better of him. Perhaps these Indians didn’t eat captives. Nonetheless, they were extremely dangerous.
Shortly the sky grew progressively lighter. The stars faded by gradual degrees. A pink and orange tinge painted the eastern horizon and transformed the snowcaps on the regal peaks into crowns of radiant glory.
Nate stretched and rubbed his eyes. He could use ten or twelve hours of undisturbed sleep, a luxury he was unlikely to enjoy for quite some time. Since he had taken over the watch there had been no sign of the savages, but as sure as he was breathing he knew they were lurking out there, hidden, just waiting their chance.
The soft patter of feet made him turn.
“Good morning,” Smoky Woman said softly.
“How’s Cain doing?” Nate inquired.
“Very weak. Very hot. Skin burn.”
“Do you still have some of the water left?”
“Yes,” Smoky Woman answered, and held up her hand, her thumb and forefinger extended and several inches apart. “This much.”
Which wasn’t much at all, Nate reflected dourly. Before noon they must decide whether to make a dash for the spring or to suffer through the whole day and try after dark. Given Cain’s condition, they could ill afford to wait that long.
“I forget thank you what you do last night,” Smoky Woman said.
“I did what I had to.”
“You not like him?”
Rather than hurt her feelings by being frank, Nate said, “I’ve met more trustworthy folks in my time.”
“Cain good man.”
Only a fool disputed with a woman in love over the object of her affections, and Nate was no fool. “I hope you’re right, for your sake,” was all he said.
An uncomfortable silence descended. Nate, aware he was wasting his time, occupied himself by scanning their vicinity for concealed savages.
“You like pemmican or jerky for breakfast?” Smoky Woman inquired.
“Jerky will do me fine,” Nate said, his gaze on her until she rounded the turn. He saw Flying Hawk’s eyes snap open and suspected the warrior had been awake for some time. “Morning,” he said with a smile.
Flying Hawk gave a curt nod and slowly stood. The quiver went across his back. The powerful bow was held in his brawny left hand as he stepped to the barricade and peered out.
“All has been quiet,” Nate signed.
As if to prove Nate wrong, a lone savage forty yards out darted from one boulder to another, his body a blur. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. If not for a tiny swirl of dust the man made, Nate would have doubted his eyes.
Flying Hawk had whipped up the bow, but the savage was under cover before he could nock a shaft.
“I wonder how many more are out there,” Nate mused aloud. He’d seen five last night, but there might be many times that number. When the time came to try for the spring he’d probably find out exactly how many there were.
That time came sooner than anticipated. An hour and a half later, with the heat rising steadily, Smoky Woman came to Nate and said urgently, “Come see. Cain very bad.”
One look at the sweat glistening on Cain’s feverish brow, listening to Cain mutter incoherently as he tossed and turned on the buffalo hide, was enough to persuade Nate they must obtain fresh water immediately since the pot was almost empty. Smoky Woman had been draping wet cloths on Cain’s brow and neck to keep his temperature down. Since they couldn’t exactly stroll out to the spring and back, they’d need a better container than the pot to hold the water or risk spilling most of it along the way. “Does Cain own a water bag?” he inquired.
“I think yes,” Smoky Woman responded. “I see.” Spinning, she scurried off.
Nate stayed with Cain, sopping sweat off the man’s face, until she came back bearing an old, empty water bag made from a buffalo bladder. It had not seen use in quite a spell. He would have to remember not to fill it to the top or it might burst. “We’ll need your help,” he told Smoky Woman.
“Anything.”
He led her to the barricade and gave her Cain’s rifle and pistol. “You stay with your brother. No matter what happens, don’t let those savages get in here.”
“You go alone?”
“One of us has to,” Nate responded, and set down the Hawken. He wanted his hands free to carry the water bag and to bring his pistols into play when the savages tried to stop him, as they surely would. Giving her a reassuring smile while butterflies swarmed in his stomach, Nate placed a hand on top of the barricade and tensed to vault over it.