“Damn!” Nate snapped, flinging George’s reins down. Digging his heels into Pegasus, he flew toward the smoke, the fringe on his buckskins flapping in the wind. Reverend Burke had made camp in a stand of firs through which a narrow creek flowed. Until Nate reached the trees, he couldn’t see what was happening. But as he dove in among the trunks he glimpsed a number of horses on the east bank and several figures moving about near a fire.
His arrival took the Arapahos by surprise. They were in the act of plundering the minister’s supplies, whooping and venting cries of delight at their finds, and consequently didn’t hear him coming until he was among them. He burst from cover into the clearing in which the camp was situated just as a tall warrior held aloft a spare pair of long underwear and crowed loudly.
Three of the band were by the crackling fire, the fourth standing near the prone form of Reverend Burke. They all spun, and the tall one dropped the long underwear and grabbed for a tomahawk at his waist.
Nate reined up with one hand as he jammed the Hawken to his shoulder with the other and trained the barrel on the tall warrior. The Arapaho recoiled backwards anticipating a ball in the chest. But Nate held his fire. His meaning was clear. If any of them pulled a weapon on him, he would shoot.
For a moment the outcome hung in the balance, the warriors frozen in indecision, Nate doing his best to keep the Hawken trained on the tall Arapaho despite the fidgeting of his stallion. And then Shakespeare, Allen, and George arrived, the first two with their rifles leveled.
The younger Burke took one look at his brother and leaped to the ground. He started to run over when a harsh command from Nate halted him in his tracks.
“Not yet! Don’t get between us and these Indians or you might be caught in the cross fire if they decide to put up a fight!”
“But John—”
“Will have to wait,” Nate ordered. He slid off Pegasus and warily approached the tall warrior, lowering his Hawken to waist height but kept the man covered. “Do you speak their tongue, Shakespeare?” he asked without taking his eyes off the Arapaho. So far as he knew, his friend was fluent in four Indian languages, spoke three others passably well, and might know more. McNair wasn’t the type to brag about his accomplishments.
“Can’t say as I do,” Shakespeare answered. “Always wanted to but somehow or other I never got around to it. Once I hit seventy I started to slow down. No excuse for it other than outright laziness, I reckon.”
“Watch them like a hawk,” Nate cautioned, and tucked the Hawken under his left arm to free his hands. “I am Grizzly Killer of the Shoshone,” he signed, then pointed at the minister. “This man is my friend. Have you killed him?”
“I am Running Antelope of the Arapaho,” the tall warrior responded. “Do not blame me or my friends for his condition.”
“Then why is he lying there?”
Running Antelope glanced up at Shakespeare, then at Shakespeare’s rifle. “I do not know. We were following him, waiting for a chance to steal his horses, when he made his camp at this spot. We watched him build his fire, walk to the stream, and drink some water. As he moved toward his horses he suddenly put a hand to his forehead and fell. We did not touch him.”
Nate believed him. While Arapahos might be horse thieves and occasionally cold-hearted killers, they were no worse in their dealings with whites than any other tribe, not counting the Blackfeet and their confederates. And the Arapahos certainly weren’t liars. Few warriors in any of the tribes made lying a regular practice because of the scorn that would be heaped on them if they were caught. By and large, Indians in general were much more honest than their white counterparts.
He sidled over to the minister and dropped to one knee to touch his hand to John Burke’s cheek. It was as hot as the nearby fire. Pressing his palm to Burke’s brow confirmed the reverend was burning up with fever.
“Is he—?” George asked, unable to finish the question.
“He’s alive,” Nate said, “but he’s as sick as a dog. All that gallivanting in his weakened state only made matters worse.”
“Can I help him now?”
“Go right ahead,” Nate said, rising. He stood aside as George rushed to John’s aid, then addressed Running Antelope. “I believe you did not harm our friend. But you were all too eager to take his possessions when he was helpless, and this I hold against you. Neither I or my friends have ever sought trouble with your people. We deserve to be treated better than this.” He tactfully did not mention the run-in he once had with a war party of five Arapahos who had kidnapped Winona. Fortunately, none of the five made it back to their village to report the clash.
Running Antelope appeared bewildered by the statements. He stared at the minister and the minister’s pack-horses. “Perhaps we were wrong in thinking this man was our enemy and that we had every right to take his things, but our people have not had many dealings with whites. No one has ever told us the whites are our friends.”
“My people have a saying,” Nate signed. “Always do to others as you would have them do to you.”
“A wise saying,” Running Antelope conceded after a bit. “I will be sure to tell everyone I know that your people are not as bad as we think if you allow us to leave in peace.”
Nate nodded at their war ponies. “You are free to go now. We have no wish to kill you.”
At a gesture from Running Antelope, the Arapahos climbed on their horses and turned their mounts to the south. Running Antelope paused to look at Nate. “You have spared us and we are in your debt. In return, I will warn you that two sleeps ago we came on the sign left by a large war party of Blackfeet. They are roaming in this area.”
“I thank you,” Nate said, disturbed by the news. If the war party found them, there would be hell to pay. They had to get the reverend back to the Shoshone village quickly.
Uttering a loud yip, Running Antelope led his fellow warriors southward at a trot. They never looked back, and were soon out of sight.
“Well done, son. You averted bloodshed,” Shakespeare stated. “The youngest son of Priam, a true knight, not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue, not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calmed; his heart and hand both open and both free.”
Allen cast an incredulous glance at the mountain man. “What did you just say?”
“Pay him no mind,” Nate threw in. “His brain stopped working a decade ago.”
“You pierce me to the quick, young sire,” Shakespeare said.
George Burke, who had been carefully examining his brother, turned on them. “I’m glad you can find the time to joke around while poor John lies at death’s door. He’s ill, terribly ill, and I don’t know what to do.”
Shakespeare slid off his mare. “Allow me. I’ve picked up a little medical know-how from the Indians over the years and I might be able to do some good.” He knelt next to the minister.
“Those Arapahos told us there’s a band of Blackfeet in this area,” Nate informed George. “No matter how bad off your brother is, we have to head back within the hour. If they caught us here we wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“John is in no shape to ride,” George said.
“Then we’ll rig a travois and haul him behind his pack animals,” Nate proposed.
“Do you really think that will work?” Allen asked. “Those horses aren’t accustomed to pulling a travois. They might buck or kick or drag Reverend Burke off into the brush before we could stop them.”
“I know,” Nate said. “We’ll just have to keep them under control until we’re satisfied they won’t give us any trouble.”
“It sounds too risky to me,” George said. “What if I refuse to allow it?”
“Would you rather wind up in the hands of the Blackfeet?” Nate said, and glanced at the fire. That column of smoke was a certain giveaway of their location, and it would draw a hostile war party like a flame drew moths.
He saw a tin pan the minister had unpacked, apparently in preparation for making a meal, and quickly picked it up and went to the creek. Three trips were needed before he completely doused the flames. He stood back as the last tendrils of smoke climbed upward, then stamped on a few lingering embers.
“We have a problem,” Shakespeare announced, standing, his features set in grave lines.
“What is it?” Nate asked, although deep down he had a feeling he already knew.
“Reverend Burke is in bad shape, so bad he won’t survive a journey to the Shoshone village even on a travois. I don’t know whether the hardships he went through on the plains finally caught up with him or whether he’s come down with a sickness. But his fever is burning him up and he’s as weak as a newborn kitten.” Shakespeare gazed down at the minister and shook his head. “In his weakened state he should never have taken off from the village. He needed another week, at least, to recuperate.”
“What do you think we should do then?” Nate inquired.
“Stay here overnight. Give him a chance to get some of his strength back. If we keep him warm and get a lot of liquids into him, he might come around enough to be able to make the trip on a travois.”
George squatted and rested a hand on his brother’s chest. “I don’t care what the rest of you decide, but I’m doing as Mr. McNair says. You can all go back if you want. I’ll take care of John.”
“We’re not about to abandon the two of you,” Nate declared. “We’ll stay here until morning and see how John is faring.”
Allen rested his rifle across his saddle. “The closest hill is west of here,” he mentioned, and jabbed a finger at the tree-covered crown visible over the tops of the trees on the other side of the creek. “How about if I ride up there and take a gander at the countryside. If those Blackfeet are skulking about, I might spot them.”
“Good idea,” Nate said, “Have at it.” He watched the trapper ford the creek, then devoted himself to watering and tying their horses while Shakespeare and George did their utmost to make John as comfortable as they could, wrapping the minister in blankets and placing a wet cloth on his brow to cool his perspiring forehead.
George looked around as Nate joined them. “I appreciate you staying,” he said, his eyes going past Nate to their mounts. “Say, you didn’t unsaddle our horses. Why not?”
“If we have to leave in a hurry there won’t be time to spare to saddle up.”
“Oh. I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“So do I.”
Shakespeare was poking a stick among the wet remains of the minister’s fire. “I hate to say it, but we’ll need a new fire if we’re to boil some broth. I’ll chop up some jerky and see what else I can find to throw in.” He headed into the trees.
“Leave the fire to me,” Nate said. “I was the one who put it out in the first place.” He walked into the trees and gathered broken limbs he could break down to suitable lengths. The older the limb, the better. As he came into the clearing he saw George holding John’s hand and fighting back tears. The two of them must have been very close before the loss of John’s wife and son changed John’s outlook on life and caused the rift between them.
“Do you have a family in the States?” George asked as Nate walked up.
“Yes.”
“Ever miss them?”
“Of course,” Nate said, controlling his annoyance at being reminded of them.
“I don’t see how you do it,” George said earnestly. “I could never sever all my ties with my relatives just to head off for somewhere unknown.” He stared at the gurgling creek. “I could never live in these mountains, no matter how splendid they are, knowing I might never see my parents again.”
“Seldom does a day go by that I don’t think of my folks and the rest of my kin,” Nate said, bending over to deposit the branches on the grass. “We were a close-knit family, and naturally it pained me to leave them.” He straightened. “At the time I figured on going back, but things never worked out that way. Now my father and mother are both dead and I’ll never be able to look into their faces and tell them how much I truly cared.”
George was studying Nate’s own face. “I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me to bring the subject up. I should have realized you’d have regrets.”
“Regrets?” Nate said, and sighed. “If you only knew. But there comes a time in a person’s life when they have to weigh their personal happiness against the blood ties of their childhood. Sometimes, as in my case, a person finds the mate of their dreams and the land of their heart’s desire far from the home they knew and loved, and they have to make the hardest decision of their lives. Do they go off on their own to start anew or return to the old life? Do they stand on their own two feet and do what is best for them or do they do what might be best for their parents?”
“You sound as if—” George began, and stopped abruptly when a tremendous crackling and crashing in the undergrowth on the west bank heralded the sudden arrival of Henry Allen, who galloped into the open and reined up sharply.
“Blackfeet!” Allen cried, pointing to the south. “Heading this way!”