Nate didn’t like the fact that most of the Bloods then laughed and one made motions suggestive of a body being ripped to shreds, which prompted more laughter. Even Kicking Bird smiled, which confirmed the manner of death they had chosen must be particularly fiendish.
“We are about to have our breakfast,” Eagle Claw signed. “Would you care for some deer meat?”
Surprised by the unexpected generosity, Nate licked his lips and signed, “Yes, please.”
“A wise decision. You will soon need all of your strength,” Eagle Claw said, and went to the fire.
One of the Bloods carved large pieces off the roast and passed them out to the others. He also brought a fist-sized chunk to Nate. The warriors sat down to eat, the pair with bows taking their seats with their backs to the flames so they could keep their eyes on their captive.
Rather than uselessly dwell on his impending fate, Nate ate with relish. He was famished, the deer meat delicious.
His piece included a wide strip of fat which he chewed on greedily, savoring the tangy taste. In his estimation animal fat was even better than the meat itself. When he was done he licked his fingers clean and smacked his lips, Indian fashion, to show the meal had been a good one.
The Bloods appeared surprised by his casual attitude. They soon had something else to occupy their attention, however; they divided up his weapons among them. Eagle Claw took the Hawken, and the rest of the band drew lots to see who would get what. Kicking Bird ended up with one of the flintlocks. To antagonize Nate, he held the gun out where Nate could see it and repeatedly stroked the barrel while smirking smugly.
Nate wished he could find a way of taking that bastard with him when he went. The sun was well above the horizon, and his intuition told him it wouldn’t be much longer before the Bloods sprang their little surprise.
Minutes later Eagle Claw stood. The fire was hurriedly extinguished, each man gathered up his weapons, and in single file they hiked to the northwest. Nate was forced to walk between Kicking Bird and one of the bowmen. Like the Blackfeet, the Bloods rarely rode horses when on raids. They preferred to travel afoot and strike swiftly and silently.
It was a beautiful morning. Sunlight streamed through the branches overhead, bathing the grass and wild flowers in golden radiance. Sparrows flitted about in the undergrowth. Jays flew from tree to tree seeking food. And, as always, chipmunks were everywhere, darting to and fro.
Nate’s headache evaporated after they had gone a mile. The invigorating mountain air and the exercise cleared his head and primed his senses for the ordeal to come. He kept looking for a chance to bolt for freedom, but the Blood behind him was as vigilant as a hawk.
Almost an hour after leaving the clearing they entered a verdant valley and marched up it to an ominous bald mountain. Huge shadows from drifting clouds shaded the higher elevations. The lower portion consisted of sheer cliffs and jumbled boulder fields where nothing grew. Desolate and bleak, the mountain was a barren contrast to the sea of life swirling all around it.
Eagle Claw walked back to Nate. “Do you know this mountain, white man?”
“No,” Nate signed.
“My people call it the Mountain Where Evil Spirits Dwell. A long time ago one of our warriors was catching eagles up near the top when a strange wind came up and blew him over a cliff. When his friends found his body, they discovered it had been split in half. Since then we never go up there.”
Craning his neck, Nate gazed at the rocky heights and spied a lone eagle soaring regally on the currents. He had once helped a Ute gather eagle feathers, and knew firsthand how difficult the task was. The favored technique consisted in digging a hole for a man to hide in, then constructing a latticework cover of thin limbs camouflaged with clods of grass and dirt. A warrior would stake out the bait, usually a dead rabbit, next to the hole and climb in. When an eagle dived down for the kill, the man would quickly reach out and grab the big bird’s legs with one hand, then rapidly pluck feathers with the other. The warrior had to work swiftly since it was impossible to hold the enraged bird for long. Occasionally a man would lose a finger or an eye, and all for a handful of the most prized feathers an Indian could own. It would be much easier to simply shoot an eagle, but to the Indian way of thinking that would be a terrible waste of life. “Let me guess,” he signed. “You want me to climb up there so the wind will blow me off?”
“No,” Eagle Claw said, grinning. “We have another end in mind for you.” Again he took the lead and they wound into a narrow ravine.
Nate paused once to scan the steep stone sides, and felt the tip of an arrow poke him in the spine. He walked on, perplexed, unable to deduce their intent. The ground was too rocky to bear tracks, so he had no idea whether the Bloods had ever been up the ravine before or not. He got the impression, though, they knew exactly where they were going.
The ravine twisted and turned like a sidewinder, eventually broadening out at the base of a high cliff on the south side of the foreboding mountain. Boulders the size of log cabins flanked the cliff, obscuring the lower section from view.
Nate reluctantly let himself be led into the boulder field. A glint of white to his left made him glance around, and there in the dust lay the leg bone of an elk, the bone bearing numerous teeth marks. He hadn’t gone ten feet when he spotted another one, this time the thigh bone. Farther on he saw the complete skeleton of a young mountain sheep, the skull lying several feet from the rib section. Most of the rib bones had been cracked off and gnawed on.
Budding apprehension flowed through Nate. Where there were this many bones, there must be the lair of a predator nearby. In this instance it was most likely a panther—or mountain lion as some called the big cats. Was that their destination? He hardly thought so. The panther was just as apt to attack them as him.
He saw Eagle Claw slow, then stop in the shelter of a huge boulder. A warrior armed with a lance moved stealthily forward and disappeared. The others waited in silence. “What is going on?” he inquired.
“You will see soon enough, white dog,” Kicking Bird answered. “And when you do, perhaps you will change your mind about wanting a fighting chance. If so, if you admit you are a coward and not a true man, I will make your end swift and painless.” He tapped the hilt of his knife, then drew a finger across his throat.
Nate resented being taunted. “There is only one coward here and he goes by the name of Kicking Bird.” He detected a blur of motion a fraction of a second before his own flintlock struck him flush on the jaw. Lanced with pain, suddenly dizzy, he tottered and sank to his knees. Dimly, he heard harsh words spoken in whispers. When his vision cleared he saw Eagle Claw and another warrior restraining a furious Kicking Bird, who had cocked the pistol and was trying to point the barrel in his direction.
Kicking Bird gradually regained his self-control. He let the hammer down and barked a few words. His arms were released and he shoved the flintlock under the top of his leggings. His countenance mirrored volcanic hatred of Nate.
Wondering why they were all whispering, Nate slowly stood. Were they so near the predator’s lair that they risked being heard and attacked? And what manner of predator would make a band of otherwise fearless Bloods behave like timid children?
In strained silence the warriors waited for their companion with the lance to return. Five minutes later he did, speaking urgently but softly to Eagle Claw, who pursed his lips and gave Nate a long, searching look.
What were they up to? Nate asked himself yet again. Kicking Bird was grinning at him, as if at a private joke. Whatever they had in mind must be typically devious and especially gruesome. Indians shared few of the qualms white men possessed about inflicting truly barbarous deaths on their enemies. Indeed, Indians victorious in battle often inflicted the most appalling atrocities on their captives to see how well the unfortunates held up. It wasn’t that Indians delighted in torture. Torture was simply a test of bravery. Those taken prisoner knew what to expect and would do the same if the situation was reversed.
Eagle Claw took the lead again, Nate’s Hawken held firmly in his hands.
The band wound deeper into the field of mammoth boulders, winding ever nearer the base of the bald mountain. Nate saw more bones. Lots more. In vain he hunted for tracks, for any clue as to the identity of the creature responsible, but the rocky ground was a blank page.
After three minutes of travel the Bloods slowed. This time two warriors were sent ahead while the band waited.
“It will not be long now, Grizzly Killer,” Kicking Bird signed with a sneer.
“Until what?” Nate responded.
“Be patient, white dog,” Kicking Bird said, and added mockingly, “Are you still feeling brave? Or are you ready to admit that all your talk of dying bravely was the talk of a weakling stalling for time in the hope you could escape?”
“You will see how brave I am when the time comes,” Nate signed, then grinned. Here he was, sparring words with the Blood just as a Shoshone would. In some ways he was more Indian than he realized.
“You find this humorous?” Kicking Bird asked.
“I find you humorous,” Nate answered. “Until I met you, I had no idea that Blood men like to work their mouths more than their brains. I am quite amazed the Blackfeet would accept your tribe as allies.”
Kicking Bird bristled, his hand swooping to the flintlock. For a moment he was on the verge of drawing. But he checked himself with a visible effort and relaxed his grip. “The only reason I do not kill you here and how is because I know what is in store for you and I do not want to deprive myself of the satisfaction of hearing you scream and plead for your miserable life.”
Eagle Claw walked up to them and signed to Nate. “Why do you persist in insulting him? Kicking Bird is noted for his fiery temper. If you are not careful, he will shoot you where you stand.”
“This white dog wants me to,” Kicking Bird signed using sharp, angry gestures. “He hopes I will spare him from his deserved fate, but he will be disappointed. I want to watch him die in intense agony. I want to see his guts ripped from his body and hear the crunch of his bones as—”
“Enough!” Eagle Claw interrupted. “You will spoil our surprise.”
“My apology,” Kicking Bird said.
Nate couldn’t resist the opening. “There is no need to apologize. We all understand how children like to make idle boasts.”
A flinty gleam came into Kicking Bird’s eyes. “I have never looked forward to the death of an enemy with so much anticipation as I look forward to yours.”
At that juncture the two warriors returned on the run. The Bloods clustered together and exchanged whispered words for several minutes. Eventually the pair with bows took up positions behind Nate and Eagle Claw motioned for him to start walking.
High above them reared the stark, jagged mountain, shrouded in shadows from passing clouds. Nate guessed they were within fifty yards of a towering cliff scarred by deep cracks and broken sections, toward which they were evidently heading. The Bloods were exercising great care, halting behind each boulder to survey the route ahead and crossing open spaces swiftly. He could practically feel their anxious tension.
He glanced back at the grim bowmen, who had him covered with their shafts, and frowned. It had been a mistake not to attempt to escape sooner. Now he must either commit virtual suicide by making a bid for his freedom or accept the inevitable and face whatever lay ahead. There was always the slim chance he might be able to slay the creature and then effect his escape. The sight of more bones, this time those of a bear, gave him second thoughts. The size of the bear’s partially crushed skull revealed it had been between two and four years of age, not a cub by any means, in the prime of its vigor and strength.
Nate licked his lips and rubbed his moist palms together. What was capable of slaying a grown bear? He began to wonder if the creature might be of an unknown species, one he had never encountered. All tribes had legends of monsters, many dating from the times of antiquity when the Indians first settled on the North American continent. Most involved tales of heroic warriors who fought and vanquished ferocious beasts unlike any currently alive. And too, he recalled his own harrowing experience not long ago in a hidden valley far to the north where he had nearly lost his life to The Thing That Lurks in the Dark, as the Crows called the mysterious denizen of that valley.
Suddenly his reflection was brought to an end; they emerged from the boulder field less than thirty yards from the base of the cliff. Between them and the rock face the ground sloped down to form a huge bowl. They stood on the rim, surveying the erosion-formed depression. In front of them and to the left the earth walls of the bowl were ten to fifteen feet high. To the right was an earthen ramp extending from the top to the bottom. The opposite side was actually the cliff itself, and at its base was the entrance to a cave, a murky opening a dozen feet high and equally as wide.
Nate took all this in at a glance. His main attention was riveted on the scores of skeletons littering the bowl floor. He recognized bones from all sorts of animals. Whatever killed them must have an insatiable appetite. The cave, he realized with a start, had to be the creature’s lair. He had started to take a step backwards away from the edge when a rough pair of hands rammed into his shoulder blades and he was brutally shoved over the brink.