The Tears of God Read online

  “Have they seen us?”

  Nate lowered his telescope again. A splash of sunlight off the brass tube explained what had happened. “Oh, hell.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you cuss. You have me worried, mountain man.”

  Nate was growing concerned, too. The warriors were galloping toward them. Each had a shaved head except for a spine of hair down the middle. “They’re Pawnees.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It depends. Sometimes the Pawnees are friendly.”

  “And the other times?”

  “Let’s just say we need to keep our wits about us if we want to go on breathing.”

  Chapter Five

  The exact number was eleven. All were stocky and powerfully built. They slowed and spread out as they neared Nate and the bull-whacker. Haskell nervously fingered his rifle and said, “I don’t get why we’re not riding like our backsides are on fire.”

  “They’d catch us,” Nate predicted.

  “Then shoot a few now before they get too close.”

  “That would only make the rest mad.” Nate shook his head. “We’ll do this my way. Follow my lead. Don’t talk. Just keep an eye on them. If they act as if they’re going to stick us with their arrow and lances, we’ll fan the breeze.”

  “You’re taking an awful gamble.”

  “I know,” Nate admitted. He reined the bay broadside to the Pawnees and held his Hawken across his saddle so the muzzle pointed at them. “Remember. I do the talking.”

  “Fine by me,” Haskell said. “I don’t speak a lick of Injun. Not even that hand talk they use.”

  Nate supposed it was normal for a freighter not to make the effort. For him it had been essential he learn sign language.

  “King?”

  “Hush now.”

  The warriors were soon upon them. Slightly ahead of the rest rode one who carried himself with an air of authority. When he drew rein so did the rest. No weapons were brandished, but they held them ready.

  Nate was set to explain that Haskell and he weren’t enemies and it would be best for everyone if they went their separate ways when the apparent leader addressed him in English.

  “White man.”

  “Chaticks-si-Chaticks,” Nate said. It was the Pawnee name for their people. It meant “men of men,” which showed their opinion of other tribes.

  The leader’s surprise showed. “You know of us? Do you speak our tongue?”

  “Only a few words,” Nate admitted. “But it is good you know mine so I can tell you we want no trouble with the Chaticks-si-Chaticks.”

  “Only one of us may call another of us by that name,” the warrior said stiffly. “You may call us what the rest of your kind do.”

  “Very well, Pawnee,” Nate said. “How is it you speak my language?”

  “I speak English. I speak French. I speak Spanish. How many tongues do you speak?” The warrior didn’t wait for an answer. He sat taller and and thrust out his chest. “I am a Chaui. Do you know what that means, white man?

  Nate was aware that the Pawnees were made up of four groups. The Chaui were the leaders. “How are you called?”

  “I am Kuruk,” the warrior proudly declared. “It means ‘bear.’ ”

  “I have an Indian name,” Nate revealed, and had to smile at the irony. “I’m called Grizzly Killer.”

  Kuruk gave a start. “The white Shoshone?”

  “You have heard of me?”

  “I have seen you. But it has been so long I did not recognize you.”

  Nate racked his brain and said, “If we’ve met it is news to me. Your face isn’t familiar.”

  “Think back, white man,” Kuruk said harsly. “Think back seventeen winters. You were a guest in a village of my people.”

  Nate was jolted by the memory. He hadn’t been a guest; he had been a virtual prisoner, a pawn in a struggle for power between a medicine man and a chief. “I remember being there, but I don’t remember you.”

  “Do you remember a warrior called Red Rock?” Kuruk asked bitterly. “He was my uncle.”

  Nate never forgot a man he killed. Sometimes at night he woke up drenched in sweat from dreams where he relived the killings. “He was trying to stab me. I defended myself.”

  Kuruk seemed not to hear. “I was a boy then. I loved my uncle very much. He gave me a pony. He treated me as his own son.” Kuruk glared at Nate. “It made me mad that his killer got away.”

  Haskell said, “Uh-oh.”

  “Now here you are,” Kuruk continued, and smiled coldly. “Tirawa has brought you to me after all these winters.”

  Nate had not heard that word in a long time. Tirawa was the Pawnee god, the being who created the Pawnees and taught them to hunt and to make fire and gave them their language. Tirawa, who demanded regular human sacrifice in order for the Pawnees to reap the god’s blessings. “I hope we have no quarrel, you and I. As you say, it was long ago.”

  Kuruk’s dark eyes flitted from Nate’s face to the Hawken across Nate’s saddle and then back again. “Long ago,” he repeated. He said something in Pawnee and the others studied Nate intently.

  “They’re fixing to lift our hair,” Haskell whispered. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Nate raised the barrel just enough that the muzzle was pointed at the Chaui. They all heard the click of the hammer. “Do we have a quarrel?”

  For seconds that seemed like minutes, Kuruk just sat there. Then his smile slowly widened and became even colder. Hate he couldn’t hide was in his eyes and his tone as he said, “We have no quarrel, Grizzly Killer. We will let you go in peace.” So saying, he reined sharply around and the rest followed suit. Tendrils of dust rose from under the pounding hooves of their mounts as they rode off to the northeast. Not one looked back.

  Haskell let out a long breath. “Whew. I thought for sure this was the day I’d meet my Maker.”

  “He lied,” Nate said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You saw. He’ll never forgive or forget. He wants me dead.”

  “Then why didn’t he do it here and now? There were enough of them, they could have rubbed us out without half trying.”

  “I would have shot him and he knew it.” Nate had met men like Kuruk before. They never struck unless they had an edge. “We must warn your boss. We’re heading back.”

  “Those red devils would be fools to attack our wagons,” Haskell said. “We’d shoot them from their horses before they got close enough to loose an arrow.”

  Nate reined the bay around. “Only if they attack in the open in broad daylight. But they’re not stupid. They’ll pick you off from ambush one by one until there are more of them than there are of you and then they’ll close in.”

  “Captain Blunt is too smart to let that happen.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  The train had covered barely two miles. Jeremiah Blunt listened to Nate’s account and then rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  “Well, now. I didn’t count on this. I asked a favor of you thinking you could be of help, not a hindrance.” Blunt held up a hand when Nate went to respond. “Don’t take me wrong. I don’t hold it against you. How were you to know there were Pawnees within a hundred miles? We’ll take extra precautions from here on out.”

  “I could go,” Nate proposed. “I doubt Kuruk will cause you trouble if I’m not with your train.”

  “Alone you are easy pickings. No, it’s wisest you stay with us. If the Pawnees want you, they’ll have to work at it.”

  “I’d rather none of your men were killed on my account.”

  “That’s decent of you, but we’re none of us yellow. I don’t hire cowards. We have twenty-three rifles plus extras and forty-six pistols, enough to stand off a war party ten times the size of this Kuruk’s.”

  Nate had to admit that with the wagons circled, the freighters could put up a formidable defense. He didn’t like the notion, though, of being dogged by a warrior out for revenge. He mulled it over the
rest of the day and by supper had come to a decision. He walked to the fire where Blunt was pouring coffee, held out his own tin cup, and hunkered next to the captain. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “To use your own words, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Nate looked at him in surprise. “You haven’t heard it.”

  “I don’t need to.” Blunt propped an elbow on a knee. “I’ve taken your measure. You, sir, are a man who always does what he thinks is right, and hang the consequences. Am I correct?”

  “Most men do the same,” Nate said.

  “No, they don’t. Too many look out for themselves. They put their own interests before everyone else and they don’t care who is hurt by it. They’re petty and mean and can’t ever talk well of anyone else. They carp and they whine and they stab others in the back.”

  Nate laughed. “You don’t have a very high opinion of your fellow man.”

  “No, I do not.” Blunt sipped and scowled. “I wish it were otherwise. When I was young I did. I lived and breathed the Bible and thought everyone did the same. I believed, truly believed, that all men were brothers and all women sisters and that all it took for all of us to get along was for all of us to care for one another.” His scowl deepened. “I was a fool.”

  “You can’t be faulted for thinking the best of everyone.”

  “Yes, I can,” Blunt said severely. “My head was in the clouds. I took it for granted everyone was like me when they weren’t. That’s the key, you see. We are all of us different. I have made no secret of the fact I am a Christian. I confess to you now that the great shock of my life was to realize that many, or dare I say most, of my fellow men are not as I am and have no real interest in being so. They are content to go through life being selfish and vain and give little thought if any to their Maker.” Blunt shook himself. “But to get back to you. I suspect you have taken the notion to go out after this Kuruk before he attacks my train. Am I correct or not?”

  “You are.” It dawned on Nate that here was a man every bit as shrewd as Shakespeare and every whit as smart as Winona. “I intend to slip away in the middle of the night. There’s less chance the Pawnees will be watching us then.”

  “You are being foolish.”

  “Hear me out,” Nate requested. “Kuruk is out to get me. His friends might lend a hand but only so long as he is there to lead them. If I can find them, if I can put an end to him, the rest will go. They won’t pose a threat to you and your men.”

  “It’s noble of you to be willing to risk your life on our behalf, but you’re overlooking something.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Kill Kuruk and maybe his friends won’t go away. Maybe they will want revenge for him just as he wants revenge for his uncle. They might even send for more warriors, and before you know it, we’ll have the whole tribe breathing down our necks. Have you considered that?”

  No, Nate hadn’t. “The risk is small. The Pawnees have never attacked whites in any great force.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. But I won’t try to stop you. You are a grown man and can do as you please. All I ask is that you don’t go alone.”

  “You want me to take Haskell?”

  “He is a fine lieutenant and has never given me cause to regret choosing him, but he’s not the man for this job.” Blunt twisted and scanned the encampment. Cupping his free hand to his mouth, he bellowed, “Maklin, a word with you, if you please.”

  The man who came to the fire was of middling height. He was dressed as the other bull-whackers except he wore a black hat with an uncommonly wide brim. He had two knives, one on each hip. Both of the pistols tucked on either side of his belt buckle were inlaid with silver. His rifle was foreign made, not a Hawken. He was the only freighter who wore moccasins and not boots.

  Nate had seen the man around and noticed that he kept to himself and rarely spoke even to the other bull-whackers.

  “Mr. Maklin, here, is from Texas. He lived for a while with the Lipans. Quick Hands, they called him. He is the best killer in my outfit and you would do well to have him at your side.”

  “You’ve lived with Apaches?” Nate had heard that they were implacable haters of all things white.

  “I took a Lipan gal as my wife. She’s dead now.” Maklin didn’t elaborate.

  “We have something in common,” Nate said. “My wife is Shoshone and her people adopted me. Did the Lipans adopt you?”

  “I can go back to them anytime I want.”

  Blunt coughed. “I never pry into the past of my men except as it relates to their work, but I can assure you that you won’t regret taking him.”

  Maklin turned to the captain. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “You’ve heard about our guide’s run-in with the Pawnees today? He intends to find their leader and kill him so the rest don’t try to kill us.”

  Again Maklin asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Go with Mr. King. Watch his back. Protect him. Kill any Pawnees who try to kill him.”

  Nate smothered a chuckle. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Pride, sir, goes before a fall,” Blunt responded. “Are you refusing Maklin’s help?”

  “Why do you call him the best killer you have?”

  It was Maklin who answered. “Because I’ve killed more than all the rest put together. Thirty-seven men, at last count. Some were white, but most were enemies of the Lipans.”

  “You keep a tally?”

  “I don’t take joy in spilling blood, if that’s what you’re thinking. It has to be done and I do it and forget it.”

  “Would that I could,” Nate said half to himself. “All right. You can come along on one condition. You’re not to kill unless I say. Do you agree?”

  “He agrees,” Blunt said.

  Nate stood. “I’ll go get ready.” He made for the bay. As he crossed the circle he glanced back.

  Jeremiah Blunt and the man called Maklin were huddled together, and Maklin was fingering one of his silver-inlaid pistols.

  Chapter Six

  No matter how small the fire, at night the glow could be seen for miles. Even when the fire was kindled in a hollow or a ravine as a precaution, a pale patch always stood out against the black ink of the night sky, especially when someone used a telescope to look for it as Nate was doing now. He sat astride the bay half a mile from the freighter camp and slowly swept the spyglass back and forth, seeking a telltale lighter patch.

  “Anything?” Maklin asked.

  “Not yet.” Nate was convinced Kuruk was out there somewhere plotting to rub him out for the death of Red Rock.

  “Ask you a question?”

  “So long as it’s not about anything personal.”

  “You say the Shoshones adopted you into their tribe. Did it mean something to you, or did you go along with it so as not to hurt their feelings?”

  Nate lowered the spyglass and looked at him. “I like the Shoshones. They have my highest respect and I’m honored they’ve taken me as one of their own. Why do you ask?”

  “A lot of whites don’t care for Indians.”

  That was putting it mildly, Nate thought. Out loud he said, “A lot of people, white and red, can’t see past the color of another person’s skin.”

  “I can,” Maklin said without a hint of brag. “I saw through that Lipan gal’s skin to the beauty she had inside. I loved her, King. I loved her more than I’ve ever loved anything, a lot like you must love your Shoshone gal, I reckon.”

  Nate acknowledged as much.

  “A lot of whites looked down their noses at me for taking her for my wife,” Maklin detailed. “One day in a saloon a man called me a no-account, stinking Injun lover. His very words.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I used the stock of my rifle on his face. I broke his nose and split his cheek. I told him if he ever pressed charges I’d come back and finish what I’d started. He never did.”

  “What was her name?”
<
br />   “Na-lin. Yours?”

  “Winona.”

  For a span of moments Nate felt a strong bond with this man he hardly knew. Then he raised the spyglass and applied it to the dark realm to the north. He was on his sixth sweep when his attention was drawn to a spot to the northeast.

  “Something?” Maklin asked.

  “Could be.” Or it could be Nate’s imagination, but there seemed to be the faintest of fire glows. “Here. Take a gander and see what you think.” He pointed and gave the telescope to the Texan.

  Maklin raised it to his right eye. He was still a bit, then said, “If it’s them they’re off a far piece.”

  Nate slid the spyglass into his parfleche and off they went. He held the bay to a walk, both for its own sake and for the fact that sound carried a long way at night and two horses at a trot or gallop made a lot of sound.

  Maklin reverted to his usual laconic self and didn’t say a word until more than half an hour later when he declared, “We’re getting close.”

  Nate judged the fire to be a quarter of a mile off yet. The pale patch had grown but not by much. He went on until he came on a stand of cottonwoods and willows. Dismounting, he led the bay in among them and tied the reins to a drooping willow branch. Shucking his Hawken from the sheath, he padded to the other side of the stand. The stretch of prairie beyond appeared flat, but in the dark appearances were always deceiving.

  As silently as a specter, Maklin materialized. “Too bad the wind’s not blowing from them to us.”

  “At least it’s not blowing from us to them,” Nate said. It was out of the northwest and blowing to the southeast and the glow was due east.

  “You lead, I’ll follow.”

  In a crouch Nate crept into the open. The high grass rustled against his legs but not loud enough to be heard more than a few feet away. Every dozen steps or so he raised his head. He had the glow pinpointed, but he couldn’t see the fire. The reason became apparent when he came to a basin. Flattening, he crawled to the edge and peered over. To say he was surprised was an understatement.

  Four people were below. They were white, not red, and judging by their shabby clothes and six swayback horses, they were not well off. A family, Nate reckoned. The father, a large husky with a big-boned frame, had a bushy beard and wore suspenders. The mother, her dress and bonnet faded homespun, was stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. The children were about ten or twelve, one a girl and the other a freckled boy, ragamuffins who stared at the pot as hungrily as starved wolves.