Only The Strong Read online

Nate shook his head. He doubted the two warriors would do anything with their families there.

  “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  Nate hoped so, too. The last time he had dealings with the Pawnees, they tried to kill him. He gigged his bay, his Hawken at his side.

  A young boy playing with a hoop made of sticks was the first to spot him, and shouted in alarm. Instantly, the two warriors grabbed rifles and moved in front of their wives and children to protect them.

  Nate smiled to show he was friendly and called out in English, “We come in peace.” In Shoshone, on the off chance they understood it, he said, “We want to be friends.”

  One of the warriors had streaks of gray in his hair and a seamed face that showed as clearly as words that he was a man who had seen and done much in his lifetime. His eyes glinted with intelligence. “We like peace, white man.”

  Nate drew rein. Winona did likewise. Then the Worths emerged, and it was all Nate could do not to laugh.

  The Pawnees were astounded. Their mouths fell, and the eyes of the young ones nearly bugged out of their heads. One of the women exclaimed something in the Pawnee tongue.

  Nate reckoned they had never seen blacks before. He remembered when the Shoshones first set eyes on a black man, and how they touched his skin and his hair, marveling in childlike wonder at the difference between his and their own.

  The warrior with the gray streaks bobbed his chin at the Worths. “These are the black white men I have heard of?”

  Nate wasn’t sure how to answer that. “They are black, yes. They are not black whites. They are black blacks.”

  “Petalesharo saw blacks many winters ago. He said they have hair like buffalo and their skin is like the night. Some of our people did not believe him, but now I see with my own eyes that he spoke true.”

  Nate vaguely recalled hearing of a Pawnee warrior by that name who went east of the Mississippi to see “the great white Father.” “You speak the white tongue well.”

  “I speak three. The tongue of my people, your tongue, and the French tongue.”

  Nate realized that here was another linguist, like his wife. He had been shocked when he first discovered how much better she was at learning new languages. It was his fist true inkling of her keen intelligence. She was much more intelligent than he was. Yet she still loved him. Now, there was a miracle if ever there was one.

  The Pawnee had gone on. “I have done much trading with whites. And a white man lived with my people two winters. He taught me much of your tongue.” The warrior drew himself up to his full height. “I am Pahaatkiwako. In your tongue I would be called Red Fox.”

  “I’m called Grizzly Killer.”

  Red Fox did not hide his sudden interest. “You are the white Shoshone? Your name is known among my people. You have killed many of the silver bears.” He paused. “You have killed Chaticks-si-Chaticks.”

  Nate tensed. That was what the Pawnee called themselves. It meant “men of men,” or something like that. “I kill only those who try to kill me. The Pawnees I killed were trying to spill my blood. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  For all of a half minute the issue hung in the balance. The warrior’s inscrutable face gave no clue to what he was thinking. Then he smiled and opened his arms wide, saying, “I am Pahaatkiwako of the Chaui, a Hunter, and I welcome you.”

  Nate was relieved. If he recollected rightly, the Pawnees were divided into four clans, of which the Chaui were one, although he couldn’t remember what the word meant. He did know that the men further divided themselves into Hunters or Warriors. The former spent much of their time killing game to feed the mouths of their people, while the latter saw to village defense and went on frequent raids. “I am honored to meet you, Red Fox.” He introduced Winona and the Worths.

  “My heart will be warm, Grizzly Killer, if you will share our fire this night. We have much meat and maize. You will not go hungry.”

  Nate was tempted. They were making good time in their passage across the prairie. It wouldn’t hurt to stop early for once and spend an evening in pleasant company. He didn’t think for a moment that Red Fox was up to no good. And besides, he would take turns with Winona sitting up, just in case. “Let me put it to a vote.” Wheeling his bay, he asked, “What will it be?” His question was directed at the Worths.

  Samuel answered first. “If you think it’s safe, Mr. King, we’ll do what ever you say is best.”

  “It will be nice to meet other people,” Randa said.

  Chickory was staring at a Pawnee girl about his age. She, in turn, was fascinated by his hair. “I don’t mind.”

  Emala bit her lower lip. “I don’t know about this. Are you sure they’re friendly? They won’t scalp us in our sleep?”

  Red Fox overheard, and chuckled. “We do not lift the hair of women. You need not fear.”

  “In that case, if everyone else is for it, I’m for it, too.” Emala gave a nervous titter. “What harm can it do?”

  Chapter Four

  Wesley was on one knee, intent on tracks he was studying. “We’re barely a day behind. If we push all night, by this time tomorrow we’ll have them.”

  The six men on their horses behind him looked at one another. They were worn and weary and four of them were more than a little angry.

  Olan was the angriest. Jabbing a finger at the backwoodsman, he said sourly, “You better be joshing. If you expect us to ride all night, you’re addlepated.”

  Without taking his gaze from the tracks, Wesley said, “Is something the matter? I’m paying good money for your ser vices.”

  “I won’t argue that. But all the money in creation won’t do us a lick of good if we ride ourselves and our animals into the ground. Hell, we haven’t had more than two to three hours’ sleep a night for the past ten days. We need to rest if we’re to go up against that mountain man and his squaw. They’re holy terrors. You said so yourself.”

  “I’m with Olan,” Bromley said. Of middling height and build, he was distinguished by a bristly mustache and an English-made shotgun he hardly ever put down. “As hard as you’re pushing us, we’d be easy pickings.”

  Trumbo kneed his mount up next to Wesley and reined around so he faced the others. “You’ll do as Wes says, and like it,” he rumbled, his rifle trained in the direction of the malcontents.

  Olan bristled. “Don’t threaten us. Not ever. You can pay us to take lead, but we’ll be damned if we’ll stand for any of that.”

  “He’s right,” young Cranston said.

  Kleist, the quiet, grim German, gigged his horse up next to Olan’s. Cranston and Bromley were quick to follow suit, so that the four of them formed a crescent around Wesley and Trumbo.

  Trumbo hefted his rifle and glanced nervously at the backwoodsman, who had not gotten up off his knee.

  Olan shifted in his saddle. “What about you, Harrod? Do you stand with them or do you stand with us?”

  The grizzled, greasy frontiersman had stayed well back, with the pack horse. “Don’t rope me into this. I don’t like riding all day and most of every night, either. But when he hired me, Wesley told me we’d have to ride hard and fast. And since he’s paying me more than I would get for most guide work, I reckon I’ll do what ever he wants.”

  It was then that Wesley slowly rose and just as slowly turned. “Thank you for your confidence, Harrod. And Trumbo, for your loyalty. As for the rest of you—” They all heard the click of the Kentucky’s hammer, “I’m beginning to regret hiring you. You came highly recommended as man killers but you fall short in a lot of other ways.”

  “Name one,” Olan said indignantly.

  “You can’t track worth a lick. You can’t live off the land unless a deer or a rabbit comes up and asks to be shot. You whine about the heat. You whine about the dust. You whine about going without sleep.” Wesley pointed the Kentucky at him. “Is there anything I’ve missed?”

  “Hold on, there,” said Olan.

  “There are four of us and only
two of you,” Cranston said.

  Wesley sighed. “Boy, I have a rifle and two pistols and a knife besides. And if it comes to it, I’ll rip out your throat with my teeth.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Shut up, damn you!” Olan snapped. He was staring at the Kentucky’s muzzle. “Listen, woodsman. It could be I let my temper get the better of me.”

  “No ‘could be’ about it,” Wesley said. “So I won’t hold you to account this time. But if there’s a next, I’ll have to rethink whether you’re worth the aggravation.”

  Cranston went to say something, but Olan suddenly leaned over and punched his arm.

  “Not a word, you infant!”

  Wesley lowered the Kentucky slightly. “I admit this has been rough on all of us. But it’s either push hard now or chase the darkies all the way to the Rocky Mountains.”

  “That could take weeks,” Olan said.

  “We sure as hell don’t want that,” Bromley remarked.

  “Then quit your bellyaching. The next time you—” Wesley stopped in midsentence.

  The reason was Trumbo, who had raised a big arm and was pointing to the west. “Look yonder! Is that what I think it is?”

  The sun was setting. Only the crown had yet to slip into the nether realm of impending night. And there, barely distinguishable against the backsplash of yellow and pink, was a tiny finger of orange.

  “A campfire, you reckon?”

  Wesley sniffed like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent. “Wood smoke. They must have stopped for some reason.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Olan said.

  “The mountain man hasn’t yet. So let’s not put the cart before the horse. Maybe it’s someone else. A lot of folks cross the prairie this time of year. Or it could be redskins.”

  “We should wait until midnight, when all of them will most likely be asleep, and sneak up on them,” Cranston suggested.

  “All seven of us?” Wesley scoffed. “Sneak up on a mountain man without him hearing us?”

  “You said it might not be him.”

  Bromley said, “We can be quiet as mice when we need to be.”

  “But can you be quieter than mice?” Wesley asked.

  “That ain’t possible.”

  “It is if you know how.” Wesley regarded each of them in turn. “Do any of you have any notion what kind of man we’re up against? I’m not talking about the slaves. They don’t have the brains God gave a squirrel, and their senses are as dull as a turnip’s. I’m talking about the mountain man.”

  “You said it might not be him,” Cranston repeated.

  “Why all this fuss over one man?” Olan threw in. “He puts his britches on one leg at a time just like the rest of us.”

  “I knew you didn’t savvy,” Wesley said. “But let me see if I can make it clear.” He lowered the Kentucky. “Mountain men aren’t like you or even me. They’re part white, part Injun, and part animal—”

  “Part animal?” Cranston laughed and slapped his leg. “Mister, I might be young but I wasn’t hatched yesterday.”

  “When I say part animal I mean just that, boy. They’ve lived among the wild things so long that they become part wild themselves. This Nate King killed one of the toughest men I knew, and he did it without hardly batting an eye. So, as good as I am in the woods, I’m not taking him lightly. You’d be wise to do the same, or the coyotes and buzzards will thank you for the meal.”

  “You really think he’s as tough as all that?” Olan asked.

  “I do,” Wesley confirmed. “But don’t fret. Every animal and every man has a weakness. Every single one. Weaknesses a hunter can take advantage of.” He motioned at the woodland. “Take deer, for instance. All a hunter has to know is when they like to come out to graze and drink, and he has them.”

  “This mountain man must have a weakness, then,” Olan said. He sarcastically added, “But after the way you built him up, that don’t seem possible.”

  “His weakness rides next to him during the day and sleeps next to him at night.”

  Olan indulged in a vicious smile. “I take it you’re talking about his woman.”

  Wesley nodded. “Our mountain man doesn’t know it yet, but that squaw of his will be his undoing.”

  Nate King had to hand it to Red Fox. The Pawnee was as friendly as a Shoshone and a natural-born storyteller.

  Red Fox had been entertaining them with tales of the Pawnee way of life. He told about the time his people and the Crows fought a great battle and how he counted his first coup by running up to a Crow warrior and striking the Crow across the temple. “I was filled with pride that night. I thought counting coup was everything.”

  Nate sympathized. His son was once the same way. Zach had lived for battle, for counting the most coup of any Shoshone ever. Nate lost count of the number of times it nearly cost Zach his life. He was relieved beyond measure when Zach married and settled down.

  “A man changes as he grows,” Red Fox was saying. “When he is young, his blood is hot and he wants only to prove his manhood. When he is older, he sees more worth in helping others than in taking their lives. Among my people, the greatest leaders are those who think of the welfare of all.”

  “A wise sentiment,” Winona said. “It is the same among mine.”

  Nate had been struck by the many beliefs different tribes shared, tribes that otherwise were always at war with one another. But whites were no better; their governments delighted in making peace treaties that they then broke to justify going to war.

  “My people in the South don’t have leaders,” Samuel Worth commented. “Not the way you two do.”

  “How can you say that?” Emala took exception. “Brother Simon held ser vices every Sunday, and Manday was an overseer.”

  “Overseers are picked by the whites to keep the rest of us blacks down. That’s not bein’ a leader. That’s takin’ a whip to the backs of those who don’t work hard enough to suit you.”

  “There’s still Brother Simon.”

  “He was a windbag. He had no schoolin’. He just took to callin’ himself Brother and carryin’ around a Bible, and the next thing, folks looked up to him as the black Moses.”

  “The things that come out of your mouth, Samuel Worth.”

  Nate nipped their spat in the bud by saying, “There has been talk of freeing all the slaves one day soon. The state where I was born, New York, has already outlawed slavery.”

  “Many winters ago the French made slaves of some of my people,” Red Fox interjected. “They were carried away and never seen again.”

  “Whites have made slaves of red men as well as black men?” Samuel snorted.

  “And black women,” Emala said.

  Nate felt compelled to mention, “The Romans were white, and they had white slaves. The same with the Greeks. And in north Africa, the Arabs have made slaves of just about everybody for a thousand years or more.”

  “It is not right to make a slave of anyone,” Red Fox said.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Samuel responded.

  “It is better to kill an enemy than to make a slave of him,” Red Fox went on. “Why put an enemy to work when that is what women are for?”

  “Oh, brother,” Randa said.

  “Can’t we talk about somethin’ else?” Emala requested. “All this talk of slavery makes me miserable.”

  “You’re the reason why not much has been done about it,” Samuel told her. “Too many of our kind stick their heads in the sand.”

  Nate began to wonder if the pair ever got along. Since he met them, all they did was quarrel. It was to the point where if Samuel said it was hot, Emala would say it was cold.

  Red Fox surprised all of them by turning to Samuel and offering, “Come live with my people. We do not have slaves. We would adopt you and you would be as one of us.”

  “You’re joshin’,” Emala said.

  “I speak with a straight tongue. The Crows have a black man. They say he brings the
m strong medicine. If you come live with us, we will have strong medicine, too.”

  “If this don’t beat all.”

  “Hush, Emala.” Samuel thoughtfully regarded Red Fox. “Let me see if I understand. You want us to live as you do? In a lodge in your village? And wear animal hides? And hunt buffalo and whatnot?”

  “And skin them, yes. And go on raids and lift the scalps of our enemies. Can you think of a better life?”

  Nate gave Samuel a sharp look to warn him not to say anything that would antagonize the Pawnees.

  “That life is fine for you and yours, but not so fine for me and mine.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I tilled the soil back on the plantation. I didn’t hunt or fish or any of that. If it wasn’t for Nate and his wife, we’d have long since starved.”

  “Then you will come live with us?”

  “Aren’t you payin’ attention? I thank you for the invite. I truly do. But I’d make a terrible Indian.” Samuel shook his head. “We’re bound for King Valley. I can’t wait to get there. To hear Nate describe it, it’s heaven on earth.”

  Nate hadn’t made any such claim. He was about to set them straight when a feeling came over him, a feeling that they were being watched. Shifting, he stared beyond the ring of firelight into the dark. It could be anything, he told himself. A bear. Deer. A coyote or a wolf. Or just his imagination.

  “Is something wrong, Grizzly Killer?” Red Fox asked.

  “For a second there I thought—” Nate caught himself. He didn’t want to come across as silly. “It’s nothing.”

  The Pawnee children were soon made to turn in, and their mothers shortly followed. The Worths started yawning about ten, and Emala excused herself and her offspring. That left the men and Winona. Red Fox stayed up late, plying them with questions about the Shoshones and other tribes and translating for his friend, whose name was Hawk Takes Wing.

  It was pushing midnight by Nate’s figuring when Winona announced her eyelids were too heavy for her to stay awake. Samuel turned in after her, and then the two warriors.

  That left Nate. He refilled his tin cup with piping hot coffee and sat back. He had agreed to keep watch until three, and then he would wake Winona. As he raised the cup to his lips, that feeling came over him again. The feeling that he was being watched. Puzzled, he gazed about the clearing. All was peaceful.