King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1) Page 12

  Nathaniel glanced down at his feet and was startled to realize they had fired all of the rifles. He looked at his uncle, who was quickly reloading, then at the charging Indians. Knowing he couldn’t possibly reload before the warriors reached them, he discarded his rifle and drew his two pistols. He saw Thunder Rider and the three others angle their animals toward Zeke and him, and he took several steps toward them, determined to buy his uncle time, to sell his life dearly if necessary. He didn’t think of Adeline, or the treasure, or of his family back in New York. He didn’t think about whether killing was right or wrong. He didn’t think about the odds or the danger. All he thought about was slaying those Indians before they slew him, and he focused his total concentration on the warrior in the lead, trained both pistols on the Kiowa, and waited until the Indian was only 15 feet away and had risen to an upright posture before squeezing both triggers.

  Both balls struck the Kiowa in the chest and hurled him from his animal to fall flat on his back in the dirt.

  And then the three remaining Kiowas were there, two armed with lances, the third with a bow.

  Nathaniel dodged to the right as Thunder Rider’s horse barreled toward him and the Kiowa tried to impale him on a lance. The point narrowly missed his chest. He turned toward the spare pistols lying six feet away, and as he did he saw his uncle fire a rifle at the warrior armed with the bow at the very same instant the Kiowa released a shaft. To his horror, both men scored a hit.

  The Indian flipped backward from his mount and sprawled onto the hill.

  Ezekiel staggered as the arrow penetrated his right side, the tip passing completely through his body and slicing out his back. He sank to his left knee, gripping the shaft, his face ashen from the shock.

  “Uncle Zeke!” Nathaniel cried, and took several strides toward his relative, forgetting about the extra pistols.

  Ezekiel swung around, his eyes widening. “Behind you, Nate!”

  The warning saved Nathaniel’s life. He spun, and not 20 feet distant was the second Kiowa with a lance, the Indian’s horse kicking up dirt and grass as it pounded toward him. The Kiowa drew back his right arm to throw his weapon, and Nathaniel threw himself to the left.

  Just as the warrior started to hurl his weapon, the sharp retort of a pistol sounded and a ball hit him squarely in the forehead and he toppled backward.

  Nathaniel spun, stunned to see that his uncle had gotten off a pistol shot even with an arrow imbedded in him. He ran for the spare pistols, glancing down the hill as he did, consternation seizing him when he beheld two Kiowas sprinting toward the rise on foot. And where was Thunder Rider?

  A loud drumming of hooves arose on his right.

  Nathaniel looked around in time to see the leader of the war party closing in on him again, trying to run him through with the lance. He frantically twisted aside and the lance missed him by a hair, and as it did his hands flashed out and took hold of the weapon. Digging in his heels, he held fast with all of his might, and to his astonishment unhorsed the warrior.

  Thunder Rider fell on his left side, letting go of the lance as he dropped. Displaying pantherish reflexes, he jumped to his feet in an instant and drew a tomahawk.

  There was no time to try for the pistols. Nathaniel adjusted his grip on the lance and whipped the point at the warrior.

  Strangely, Thunder Rider grinned and bounded forward, swinging the tomahawk, batting the lance aside.

  Nathaniel furiously backpedaled and tried to bring the lance to bear again, hoping to keep the Kiowa at bay, but Thunder Rider swatted the lance to the left and pounced. In desperation Nathaniel swept the blunt end of the lance into the warrior’s abdomen, doubling the Kiowa over. He arced the lance upward, using both arms, and the heavy wood caught Thunder Rider on the jaw and rocked him backwards.

  Somewhere a pistol fired.

  An Indian shouted words in the Kiowa tongue.

  Ignoring both distractions, Nathaniel reversed his grasp and speared the point at Thunder Rider’s chest.

  The warrior evaded the lance, skipping to the right. And then he did a most peculiar thing. He ignored his intended victim and dashed toward his horse, which had halted a dozen yards away.

  Nathaniel scanned the hill, expecting to find other Kiowas charging him or attacking Zeke. Instead he saw a lone Kiowa fleeing on foot down the hill, and the bodies of four warriors lying nearby.

  Thunder Rider leaped astride his horse in a smooth, graceful motion, and in the blink of an eye he was riding as fast as he could to the east.

  “Nate!”

  The agonized dry drew Nate around, and he gasped when he spotted his uncle doubled over next to the extra pistols. He ran to Zeke’s side and knelt. “I’m here!”

  Ezekiel lifted his head. Blood trickled from the right comer of his mouth. “The Kiowa?” he asked faintly.

  “We’ve beaten them. They’re leaving,” Nate said, staring at the arrow, noting the spreading crimson stain on his uncle’s buckskin shirt.

  “Sure?” Zeke mumbled, his eyelids fluttering.

  “I’m sure,” Nathaniel replied, but he glanced over his right shoulder to verify the Kiowas were, indeed, fleeing. He saw Thunder Rider leading a riderless horse to the warrior on foot. Neither was paying any attention to his uncle and himself.

  “The others?” Zeke queried, the words barely audible.

  “They’re all dead, near as I can tell,” Nathaniel replied.

  “Not the Kiowas,” Zeke said, struggling to straighten, his visage contorted in anguish.

  “What?”

  “The others. Where are the others?” Zeke groaned and almost collapsed.

  Nathaniel placed his hands on his uncle’s shoulders to keep Zeke from falling. “What others are you talking about?”

  The beating of many hooves suddenly filled the air, and over the west rim of the hill rode 15 more Indians.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nathaniel impulsively snatched up two pistols and stood. He stepped around his uncle, placing himself between the Indians and Zeke, and grimly cocked both weapons.

  The 15 warriors rode to within a few yards of the Kings and stopped, spread out in a line, staring at the white men without a trace of hostility in their expressions. None went to employ a weapon.

  “Come on, damn you!” Nathaniel cried defiantly, flushed with the excitement of the battle and enraged that victory should be torn from him just when he thought the Kiowas had been sent packing. He pointed the pistols at the warrior in the center, who had halted a couple of feet in front of the rest. As he gazed into the Indian’s disquieting eyes, recognition dawned.

  It was the same one as before.

  The warrior he had seen near the Republican.

  Close up, the Indian showed a handsome countenance and luxuriant, dark hair. He was muscular and endowed with a robust build. His gaze, even with the pistols trained on him, was unflinching and fearless. Four eagle feathers, not visible previously because of the distance involved, adorned his head.

  A hand fell on Nathaniel’s leg and he glanced down.

  “Don’t shoot,” Zeke said, still on his knees, staying as straight as he could. “They’re not Kiowas.”

  “They’re not?” Nathaniel responded, keeping the pistols extended and ready to fire at the slighest provocation.

  “No,” Zeke stated. “They’re Cheyennes.”

  The warrior in the center surveyed the hilltop, his eyes lingering on each body, and then he gazed to the east at the rapidly departing pair of Kiowas. He barked a few words. Immediately eight of the Cheyenne lit out in pursuit.

  “Lower the guns, Nate,” Zeke directed.

  “I don’t trust them.”

  “If they’d wanted our scalps, we’d already be dead,” Zeke said. “Lower the pistols.”

  Reluctantly, Nathaniel obeyed.

  The Cheyennes began talking amongst themselves in low tones. Finally the warrior in the center stared down at Ezekiel, at the arrow jutting from the frontiersman’s torso, and slid
to the ground.

  Nathaniel tensed and started to raise the pistols.

  “Don’t!” Zeke said. He grunted and bowed his head, his mouth curled in a grimace.

  The warrior stepped up to Ezekiel and squatted. He reached out and gingerly touched the shaft, then leaned to the side so he could see the tip protruding from Zeke’s back.

  “What can I do?” Nathaniel queried, feeling totally helpless, conscious of the stares of the other Cheyennes.

  “Nothing,” Zeke replied, looking at the warrior in front of him.

  The apparent head of the band made a gesture.

  Zeke nodded, his lips compressing.

  Before Nathaniel could intervene, while he stared in perplexity at his uncle and the warrior, the Cheyenne clasped the arrow firmly, his hands next to Zeke’s chest, and with a short, sharp jerk, he snapped the shaft.

  Ezekiel’s head reared skyward and his mouth widened, but he didn’t utter a sound.

  The warrior stood and moved around behind Zeke. He knelt, gripped the protruding section of the arrow just above the triangular metal tip, and slowly pulled the rest of the shaft all the way out. A faint sucking noise announced the arrow’s extraction.

  Disregarding the Indians, Nathaniel knelt next to his uncle. “There must be something I can do,” he offered.

  “Not yet,” Zeke replied.

  The warrior stepped in front of them and began using sign language.

  Nathaniel watched his uncle respond sluggishly. A few of the signs Zeke had taught him, but the Cheyenne’s hands flew too fast for him to follow the exchange. After a few minutes the warrior glanced at him and smiled. Not knowing what else to do, Nathaniel smiled back.

  The Cheyenne touched his own chest, then launched into a series of signs.

  “What’s he saying?” Nathaniel asked.

  “He’s thanking you for your part in killing his enemies, the Kiowa,” Zeke said softly.

  “But you did most of the killing.”

  “He’s also telling you that you’re welcome in his lodge any time,” Zeke translated. The removal of the arrow appeared to have revitalized him to a small degree, and he observed the warrior while pressing his right elbow against the wound.

  “Thank him for me.”

  Zeke relayed the message, then, surprisingly, grinned. “His name is White Eagle. Remember that, Nate.”

  “I will.”

  “He says that he hopes to be able to repay you one day for the favor you’ve done his people, Grizzly Killer.”

  Nathaniel glanced at his uncle. “Grizzly Killer?”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention that?” Ezekiel said, and grinned again. “White Eagle saw you fight the bear. Grizzly Killer is the name he’s given you, and from now on that’s how every Cheyenne will know you.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Leave it to me,” Zeke said, and executed more hand signs.

  After a bit White Eagle responded, then pointed at Nathaniel and added a few sentences in Cheyenne.

  “He says that he believes the Master of Life will guide your footsteps in all that you do, that some men are touched in this way and you are one of them, which is rare in a white. He says he knows this because of the way you defeated the bear, that the Master of Life directed your hand,” Zeke translated.

  “Who is the Master of Life?” Nathaniel inquired.

  “Some of the tribes worship a sort of creator force, a Supreme Being. The best I can interpret it, the closest I can come to the meaning of his words, is to call it the Master of Life.”

  “Thank him again.”

  “I have a better idea. Give him one of the extra pistols.”

  “What?”

  “Give White Eagle a gun.”

  “Are you sure?” Nathaniel responded, balking at the idea of supplying a firearm to an Indian who might later use the gun against a trapper or even a soldier from Fort Leavenworth.

  “Which one of us has lived out here for ten years? Which one of us knows these people like the back of my hand?” Zeke asked testily. “Give him a pistol and you’ll have a friend for life.”

  Nathaniel eased the hammer down on both pistols and extended his left arm. “Here. Take this as a token of my friendship.”

  “You learn fast,” Zeke said, grinning.

  White Eagle looked at the pistol, then at Nathaniel. He took the weapon and inspected the gun carefully, then slid the barrel under the top of his breechcloth. After a moment’s consideration, he reached up and removed one of the eagle feathers from his hair and offered the feather to the younger King.

  “Do I take it?” Nathaniel queried.

  “You’d better, or he’ll be insulted,” Zeke said.

  Nathaniel took the feather into his right hand and admired the excellent state in which the plume had been preserved. “Thanks,” he said, and smiled.

  “Put it in your hair,” Zeke directed.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Damn it, Nate. Why must you question everything? An Indian doesn’t wear a feather just for decoration. A feather is a badge of distinction, just like the medals given to those in the military. White Eagle is showing his gratitude for the pistol by bestowing a great honor on you. Only warriors who have performed bravely in battle get to wear them.”

  Nathaniel twirled the quill in his fingers. “How do I attach it?”

  “Use your noggin, nephew. Cut a piece of fringe from your shirt and tie the feather to the back of your head.”

  Aware that White Eagle and the other Cheyenne were watching his every move, Nathaniel drew his knife, trimmed a short length of buckskin fringe from his shirt, and secured the eagle feather to his hair. He felt ridiculous doing so, imagining how heartily Adeline would laugh if she could see him now. But then he pondered the fact that she was about two thousand miles away, that adopting to the frontier style of dress made prudent sense, and that White Eagle must figure the feather was a gift equal in value, or maybe even better in a certain respect, than the pistol. He smoothed the feather down, letting it hang to his neck, and regarded the warrior solemnly. “Again I thank you.”

  White Eagle nodded and used sign language again, his gaze on Ezekiel.

  Zeke answered the warrior.

  Annoyed at not being able to understand them, Nathaniel vowed to learn sign language at the first opportunity. He glanced at his uncle’s wound, wondering how Zeke could withstand the pain.

  With a curt nod, White Eagle turned and mounted his horse. In moments the rest of the band was riding hard to the east after their companions.

  Nathaniel sighed, amazed at the encounter, gratified to be alive. He knelt next to Zeke. “Tell me what to do and I’ll take care of you.”

  Ezekiel nodded at their horses, which had skittishly strayed 40 yards to the southwest during the fight with the Kiowas and were now nipping contentedly at the grass. “First catch them, then we’ll tend to me.”

  The catching proved to be an easy task. Nathaniel caught his horse first, then rounded up his uncle’s roan, their pack animals, and the three horses they had taken from Gant and his friends. In short order he was back at his uncle’s side.

  “Now comes the tough part,” Zeke said. He began to peel his shirt off, moving laboriously, grimacing in torment.

  “Here. Let me,” Nathaniel declared, and assisted in removing the bloodstained garment. The arrow had left a finger-sized hole in the flesh, and both the entry and exit points were rimmed with drying blood.

  “I was lucky,” Zeke commented. “I don’t think it hit an organ and I haven’t lost too much blood. Once I cauterize the hole, I should be able to manage.”

  “How will we do that?”

  “Since there isn’t enough wood around here for a fire, we’ll have to make do. Look in the large bag on my pack animals. You’ll find a bottle of whiskey.”

  Nathaniel did as requested and returned with the bottle. He watched in fascination as his uncle p
oured a large portion of the contents directly into the hole, and he shuddered when he heard Zeke grunt, thinking of the distress his relative must be suffering.

  Ezekiel straightened and held out the bottle. “Here. Pour some down the hole in my back.”

  His stomach feeling queasy, Nathanial took the whiskey and walked around his uncle.

  Zeke bent over to make the job easier. “Try not to spill any. This is a terrible waste of good liquor.”

  “I didn’t know you were a drinking man.”

  “When I’m in the mood, I can drink anyone else under the table except for Shakespeare.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Nathaniel mentioned, and slowly upended the bottle over the exit hole.

  Zeke stiffened and snorted.

  “It must hurt like the dickens,” Nathaniel remarked.

  “No worse than having your innards torn out by a grizzly.”

  “How much should I use?”

  “That’s enough,” Zeke declared, and straightened. He took the bottle and swallowed thirstily.

  Nathaniel gazed at the bodies of the Kiowas. “Should I bury them?” he inquired.

  “You never bury an enemy, Nate. Leave them for the buzzards and the coyotes. But you can do the scalping, if you want.”

  “The scalping?” Nathaniel repeated, uncertain if he had heard correctly.

  Ezekiel nodded. “Those scalps are ours. We took those Kiowas fair and square, and their hair is worth its weight in gold. You can have the honor.”

  Emotionally dazed by the suggestion, Nathaniel looked at the corpses, then at his uncle, blinking a few times, seeing his relative in a whole new light. He’d noticed a certain change in Zeke’s character as they traveled westward, a subtle hardening, a rougher demeanor than his uncle had exhibited in St. Louis. And now he fully appreciated how much Zeke had changed since the lazy days they had enjoyed back in New York. “I don’t think I could,” he said.

  “Give it a try. It’s easy. Just pull up on the hair and insert the tip of the knife under the skin. I’ve seen Indians take off scalps in two or three swipes.”

  “No,” Nathaniel said firmly. “I won’t do it.”

  “You can’t afford to be squeamish out here, Nate. A man does what he has to do.”