THE FIVE GROS VENTRES were far from their home range. They had traveled high into the rugged, majestic mountains to the south of their customary haunts, and were strung out in single file as they crested a sloping ridge.
In the lead rode a tall warrior, who now drew rein to scour the verdant land below. Rolling Thunder was his name. He could boast of having counted over twenty coup, and many of his people were of the opinion that when their aged chief died he would be the successor. A born leader, he had led over a dozen successful war parties and never lost a man.
But today Rolling Thunder was not on a raid into enemy territory. His small band was after elk, which thrived in the high mountain valleys where abundant grass and pristine springs, lakes, and streams made the Rockies an animal paradise. So far the elk had been elusive, but he hoped to find some soon.
“Is it wise to keep going south?” a gruff voice asked behind him. “We are close to Shoshone country.”
Rolling Thunder twisted, regarded the speaker for a moment, then grinned. “Are you turning into an old woman, Little Dog? Are you afraid of the Shoshones?”
Before Little Dog could answer, the third warrior in line snorted in contempt and declared, “Only a fool would fear them! Shoshones are all cowards at heart. They run and hide at the sight of real warriors.”
Rolling Thunder saw Little Dog’s features cloud and spoke to forestall an argument. “I was joking, Loud Talker. All of us know how brave Little Dog is. Was he not the one who saved you from the Dakotas that time they shot your horse out from under you?”
Loud Talker frowned. He had spoken, as usual, without thinking, and as usual, he had upset one of his closest friends. “I did not mean to insult Little Dog,” he said. “Yes, he did save me from the Dakotas that time. If not for him my hair would now be hanging in a Dakota lodge.”
The last two men joined them. One, a husky warrior named Walking Bear, leaned forward and commented, “We are all brave. But we are few and the Shoshones are many. If a large war party should find us, we would be in for the fight of our lives.”
“Good,” said the last man, known simply as Bobcat. “We will give our people something to remember us by.”
No one responded for several seconds. They all knew Bobcat was too bloodthirsty for his own good, but he was otherwise thoroughly dependable and the best man with a bow in their entire tribe. Bobcat had never lost an archery contest. No matter the distance, he always hit his targets dead center.
Little Dog cleared his throat. “I love a fight as much as any of you, but I see no reason why we should needlessly throw our lives away. If we are all slain, who will take word to our people? How will they learn our fate?” He gestured southward. “The Shoshones are not the cowards Loud Talker claims they are. He has not fought them, as I have done, or he would know they are as fierce as the Blackfeet when aroused.”
No one disputed the point. Rolling Thunder noted the unease in some of their eyes and said quickly, “There is no cause for worry. We came here to hunt, not to make war. Our wives need meat to dry and put aside before the cold comes and the snow begins to fall.” He straightened and stretched. “So we will avoid the Shoshones if at all possible, not because we are afraid of them but because our families are depending on us.”
His words had the desired effect. The others smiled or voiced agreement and Little Dog visibly relaxed.
Pleased with himself, Rolling Thunder rode on. Since he was the organizer of the hunt, it was his responsibility to see that everything went smoothly. If they took to bickering among themselves, they would hunt poorly. They might fail to down a single elk. And under no circumstances would he return to the village emptyPercéhanded. Those few who resented his standing in the tribe would whisper behind his back, perhaps spread a rumor that his medicine was gone.
Rolling Thunder would let nothing tarnish his name. He took great pride in his accomplishments. At the age of fifteen he had counted his first coup on a Nez Percé, and ever since he had steadily added to his prestige, until he was now widely respected and admired. The old chief came to him regularly for advice. Seats of honor were his at the council sessions. He owned more horses than anyone else, and the beauty of his wives made him the envy of every man. After working so hard to get where he was, he would do whatever was needed to maintain his standing.
Of equal importance in his decision to press on was the fact he always kept his word. He had promised his wives he would bring them elk meat, and he would not let them down. To his way of thinking a man was no man at all if he could not provide for his loved ones, and he had a reputation for being an excellent provider.
In order to guarantee success, Rolling Thunder had brought his friends to this region where the elk were known to be more numerous than practically anywhere else. It mattered little to him that the Shoshones also hunted here. His wits and his strength had seen him through more dangers than he cared to remember, and he was completely confident he would prevail if he encountered them.
Once in the valley, Rolling Thunder stopped. “We must separate and search for sign. Little Dog and I will take the west side.”
“Stay alert,” Walking Bear advised, hefting his lance. He angled to the east, Bobcat and Loud Talker tagging along. “We will call out if we find anything.”
The only sounds were the dull thud of hoofs and the noisy gurgling of a swift stream meandering along the valley floor. Rolling Thunder’s keen dark eyes roved constantly over the ground. A skilled tracker, he sought evidence of a game trail. Where there was water, there was always wildlife. From past experience he knew that any elk in the vicinity would bed down in the dense timber above during the day and come down to drink toward sunset. Being creatures of habit, the elk would use the same route again and again, so if he could find the trail he could backtrack to where they were hiding.
The morning sun climbed higher and higher. They were halfway along the valley when Little Dog addressed him.
“Do you think any of the others suspect the true reason you insisted we come so far south?”
Rolling Thunder’s iron will served him in good stead.
He continued riding, his face impassive, and remarked absently, “I do not know what you mean.”
“You can fool them, my friend, but not me. We have been like brothers since childhood. I know your ways better than I know my own.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“Do I?” Little Dog said. “If so, it is a riddle you understand. And I am surprised you have not told them the truth. They are almost as close to you as I am.”
“Speak with a straight tongue.”
“Very well. Does White Buffalo know what you are up to?”
“Why should I tell him?” Rolling Thunder rejoined, the indignation in his tone obvious. “What is he to me? We are not even related.” He was about to go on, to justify himself, when he saw where the grass ahead had been flattened and torn up by the passage of many heavy forms. And there in the bare earth were scores of large elk tracks. “Look!” he exclaimed, then trotted to them.
Rolling Thunder slid down off his war pony and sank to one knee to examine the prints. As his gaze roved along the game trail he suddenly stiffened, then lowered his face within inches of the earth.
“What have you found?” Little Dog asked.
“Fresh horse tracks,” Rolling Thunder answered, touching his fingers to one of the depressions. There were two sets of hoof prints, those of a larger than normal animal that must be a big stallion and a much smaller set that might be those of a mare. Both had crossed the valley and gone up into the trees. “Someone else is hunting elk,” he deduced, and rose.
“Shoshones, you think?”
“Perhaps,” Rolling Thunder said, hiding his disappointment that neither of the animals were shod. Rising, he led his horse toward the stream, studying the tracks carefully as he went along, memorizing the individual characteristics of each animal.
“We will have to stay clear of them,” Little Dog said.
“There are only two.”
“But there may be many more.”
“It will do no harm to follow them and see.”
“But what—”
Rolling Thunder spun, anger clouding his expression. “Earlier I stood up for you, but now you give me cause to doubt my judgment. There is a fine line, old friend, between caution and cowardice. See that you do not cross that line or I will denounce you in front of the entire village.”
Eyes flinty as steel, Little Dog closed his mouth. Rolling Thunder spun, and walked on until he came to a spot by the water’s edge where the two riders had dismounted and let their animals drink. The moccasin prints told him a large man was riding the stallion, but the rider of the mare was a mere child. If they were alone they would be easy to slay. Rolling Thunder tilted back his head and vented a series of piercing yips in a perfect imitation of a howling coyote.
From the other side of the valley came Walking Bear’s prompt reply.
“Maybe we will count coup on this trip after all,” Rolling Thunder declared.