Nate instantly threw himself to the right, holding the rifle next to his chest as he rolled over and over. Amazingly, the shaft never struck him, and he surged to his feet, bringing the Hawken up, prepared to return fire.
Only the Indian hadn’t released the arrow.
The warrior nodded and spoke a few words in an unknown tongue.
Perplexed, Nate shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. If the Indian had wanted to kill him, he’d most certainly be dead. But if the warrior had friendly intentions, why point the shaft at him?
Again the man tried to communicate, speaking longer this time.
Nate didn’t know enough yet about the various tribes to be able to determine which ones individuals belonged to at a mere glance, as Shakespeare could do. He had no idea if the man in front of him was a Shoshone, Crow, Cheyenne, or Arapaho. The warrior wore leggings and moccasins and had a knife on his right hip. There were no distinguishing marks, such as paint, on his face or body, and his hair was unadorned.
Of one fact Nate could be certain. The Indian wasn’t a Blackfoot or Ute. Any member of either tribe would have shot him on sight. Of all the Indians inhabiting the Rockies and the Plains to the east, none caused more trouble for the trappers. Both tribes hated all whites.
The warrior glanced at the buck, then at Nate. He slowly let up on the bowstring, easing the tension, then lowered the bow to his side. A tentative smile creased his thin lips.
Reassured by the man’s behavior, Nate likewise let the rifle fall to his waist, although he kept a finger on the trigger. “Who are you?” he asked. “Do you speak English?”
Now it was the Indian’s turn to shake his head.
Nate didn’t give up hope. Winona had taught him enough Shoshone to enable him to engage in a conversation without fear of being misunderstood. He tried that language now, but the effort proved unavailing. At last he resorted to sign language, letting his hands do the talking, and saw the warrior smile.
Almost all of the tribes relied on the silent language that had been passed down from generation to generation from their ancestors in the distant past. The origins of sign were lost in antiquity, and no one knew how the language had become so universal in extent, but its effectiveness was indisputable. Sign language enabled Indians from different tribes, who might live hundreds of miles apart and have virtually no customs in common, to establish an immediate rapport.
Of all Nate’s accomplishments since heading west, he was most proud of his grasp of sign. He’d spent countless hours learning the proper movements of the hands and fingers, first under the tutelage of his late Uncle Zeke, then under Shakespeare and Winona. Just a few days ago the frontiersman had complimented him on his ability. He now told the warrior that he came in peace, that he was hunting for meat for the table and nothing more.
The Indian slid the arrow into a quiver on his back, then responded by revealing his name to be Sitting Bear.
“From which tribe do you come?” Nate asked with his hands.
“I am Crow.”
Nate breathed a sigh of relief. The Crows and the Shoshones were two of the friendliest tribes in the entire territory. They befriended whites regularly and were implacable enemies of the Blackfeet and the Utes.
Sitting Bear’s fingers flew. “What is your name?”
There were no Indian signs that would adequately translate his English name, so Nate disclosed the Indian name bestowed on him by the same Cheyenne who had given him the eagle feather. “I am Grizzly Killer.”
The Crow blinked. “Are you the same Grizzly Killer who was at the big gathering of whites during the last Blood Moon?”
Blood Moon was the Indian way of referring to July. “I am,” Nate responded.
Sitting Bear seemed impressed. “And are you the same Grizzly Killer who killed the Bad One?”
“Yes,” Nate admitted, wondering how the warrior knew about the incident at the rendezvous involving a rogue trapper and his band of cutthroats.
“I am happy to meet you,” Sitting Bear said with his hand. “I camped with a band of Bannocks nine days ago. They were at the big gathering and told me all that happened.”
So that was it, Nate thought. “I am happy to meet you,” he dutifully stated. “But why did you point an arrow at me?”
“For that I am most sorry. I did not know if you would be a friend or an enemy. Some whites believe all Indians are enemies and shoot us without warning.”
“I only shoot Indians if they try to shoot me,” Nate assured him.
Sitting Bear came closer and pointed at the black-tail. “I heard a shot and came to see who it was.” He admired the deer for a moment. “You will have much meat.”
Remembering the many lessons Shakespeare had imparted on Indian etiquette, Nate knew what he had to do. “I would be pleased to share some of the meat with you.”
“I could not accept,” Sitting Bear signed, although his expression betrayed his interest. “Even though my family has not tasted deer meat in three moons.”
Nate smiled and walked over to the warrior. “I insist you take some of the meat. There is more than I can possibly use.”
The Crow considered the offer for a few seconds, then looked up. “I will accept your kindness if you will agree to share my lodge tonight.”
“How far is your lodge?”
Sitting Bear pointed to the south. “A mile from here on the west bank of the stream.”
Nate hesitated. He wouldn’t be able to make it back to the cabin tonight anyway, so why not accept? If he rode out at first light, he’d be home shortly after dark tomorrow. “I would be happy to,” he signed. “I’ll stay at your lodge tonight, but I must leave in the morning.”
“You honor me,” Sitting Bear said solemnly. “My friends will not believe that so great a warrior has stayed with my family.”
The compliment made Nate feel uncomfortable. He had yet to accustom himself to the frank manner in which Indians discussed everything. They were invariably direct and to the point, and they never practiced idle flattery. Evidently the news of his encounter with the Bad One was spreading rapidly by word of mouth around the campfires of the whites and the Indians. At the rate things were going, soon he’d be as widely respected and feared as Shakespeare. “How many members of your tribes are here?” he asked to change the subject.
“My wife, my two sons, and my daughter.”
“Your family is here alone?” Nate inquired in surprise. The Central Rockies were the hunting grounds of the Utes, and for any Crow to travel into the region was extremely dangerous.
“Yes.”
“What about the Utes?”
Sitting Bear shrugged. “We had to come. There was no choice.”
Nate looked around. “Do you have a horse?”
“No.”
“I must go get mine. Would you watch my buck while I am gone?”
“Yes. I will guard it as if it was my own.”
Gripping the Hawken by the barrel, Nate hurried toward his animals. It was his understanding that only the poorest of Indians didn’t own horses, and he wondered why Sitting Bear hadn’t simply stolen a mount from another tribe. Horse stealing was a common pastime. Special raids were frequently conducted expressly for that purpose, and those warriors who succeeded were esteemed as brave men. Not to mention rich. Horses, to Indians, were conspicuous evidence of affluence.
He found the mare and pack animal munching contentedly on grass, and in no time at all he was back at the clearing and standing over the buck. “Will you give me a hand hanging this up?” he asked. “I have rope in one of my packs.”
“We can take the buck to my lodge,” Sitting Bear suggested. “My wife has made berry juice, and my sons will take care of your horses.”
Nate liked the idea. This was his first contact with the Crows, and he was curious to learn more about them, to see how they differed from the Shoshones. “Let us go,” he said with his hands.
Together they lifted the buck onto the pack animal and strapped it down tightly. Nate swung into the saddle, took the lead in his left hand, and nodded for his newfound friend to show him the way.
“Is it true you are close to Carcajou?” Sitting Bear queried, glancing over his shoulder to catch the reply.
“Yes,” Nate sighed. Carcajou was the name by which Shakespeare was known far and wide among the various tribes. The word itself was French, Nate believed, and referred to the fierce animal otherwise called the wolverine.
Sitting Bear used his hands as he walked, the bow slung over his left shoulder. “I met him once years ago. He is a white man whose word can be trusted.”
Nate started to respond, but he realized the warrior wasn’t looking at him. He focused on the surrounding trees, searching for the panther or any other threats. The likelihood of the big cat returning was slim, but in the forest it never paid to take chances.
For ten minutes they wound southward. Sitting Bear demonstrated an uncanny knack for finding passages through the thickest brush, usually by following the narrowest of animal trails. The trees thinned out, and ahead appeared a clear strip adjacent to the stream.
Nate rode to the edge of the water. Across the stream, nestled at the edge of the woods on the far side of the field, sat Sitting Bear’s lodge. Smoke curled lazily upward from the ventilation opening at the top. A woman and a young girl were seated outside the lodge, working on a buffalo robe. Two boys, both in their teens, were honing their skill with bows and arrows near the trees.
Sitting Bear raised his right arm and hailed them in his native tongue, then glanced at Nate. “Come,” his hands stated. “Meet my loved ones.”
Nate waited for the warrior to enter the water, then urged the mare forward. The stream had a depth of two feet at its deepest points and was only five feet in width. He crossed easily and reined up on the far bank.
The family ran out to meet him. All four halted a few yards off and regarded Nate with amazement and, in the case of the mother, a trace of fear.
Sitting Bear indicated their guest and launched into an extended speech in Crow. The quartet listened attentively, with repeated stares directed at Nate.
For his part, Nate was amused by their reaction but tactfully maintained a solemn face. He noticed the boys were keenly interested in his rifle. The little girl, who wasn’t any older than ten, smiled at him the whole time.
At length Sitting Bear concluded and turned. His hands and arms did the talking as he explained his comments to Nate. “I told them about our meeting and let them know you are the great Grizzly Killer. I told them you have kindly offered to share your meat with us, and that they must all be on their best behavior.”
Nate faced them and addressed them in sign language. “I am most happy to meet all of you.”
The woman nodded nervously, the girl giggled, and the boys couldn’t seem to take their eyes off the Hawken.
“Let me introduce them,” Sitting Bear said, coming around in front of the mare. He touched each member of his family as he went from one to the other. “My wife is Evening Star. Our daughter is Laughing Eyes.”
“Hello,” Nate said aloud.
The Crow paused, his features reflecting his pride. “And these are my sons, Strong Wolf and Red Hawk.”
Both boys grinned self-consciously. The taller of the pair, Strong Wolf, said something to his father in their own language.
“He wants to know if you will allow him to shoot your rifle,” Sitting Bear disclosed. “But he is too shy to ask you himself.”
“I would be happy to have him fire it,” Nate replied, and was about to compliment his host on having such a fine family when the mother suddenly pointed to the east and cried out in alarm. Twisting in the saddle, he discovered the reason.
A herd of twenty-five or thirty buffalo had crested a rise seven hundred yards distant and were pounding directly toward the camp.