Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 6

  “Just because I don’t want to slice someone’s hair off?”

  “You know how important scalps are to these people. Some tribes are downright fanatical about it. The Crows, for instance, consider a man who won’t kill and scalp his enemies as a weakling and an insult to the tribe. He’s not allowed to carry weapons or take part in any of the activities the men do. Instead he’s made a slave of the women. He has to do anything the women tell him. Tote water. Chop wood. Dress hides. You name it. Believe me, Nate, any Crow warrior who falls into the womens’ ranks can’t wait to be given the chance to prove himself and regain his manhood.”

  “They’re not going to make a slave of me.”

  “No, but they’ll tell everybody they meet about the white man who wouldn’t scalp an enemy he bested in fair combat, and you’ll acquire a reputation worse than a polecat’s.”

  Nate tried to keep his features inscrutable as he looked at Black Kettle. He was trapped by Indian custom. He didn’t necessarily want to scalp the Blackfeet, but he’d learned enough about life in the wilderness to appreciate the critical importance of an unsullied reputation. “Tell Black Kettle I thank him. Yes, I would like to scalp the warriors I killed.”

  Shakespeare nodded slowly. “Figured you would.” He spoke to Black Kettle.

  Cradling the Hawken in his left arm, Nate wheeled the mare and rode to the closest Blackfoot, the one he had shot in the cheek. He dismounted, placed the Hawken on the ground, and drew his butcher knife.

  The warrior lay on his back, his eyes wide and glazing.

  Nate took a deep breath, knelt, and grasped the Blackfoot’s hair in his left hand. He tilted the head and carefully inserted the tip of the knife at the hairline above the forehead. Blood trickled onto the blade and down over the warrior’s eyes. Working swiftly, he pried the knife under the hair and neatly separated the scalp from the head. He studiously avoided staring at the grisly, crimsonsplotched pate underneath, and instead grabbed his Hawken, stood, and led the mare to the Blackfoot he had shot in the throat.

  A pool of bright blood had collected about the warrior’s head, forming a liquid halo, and more blood continued to seep from the hole. The Blackfoot’s mouth was opened wide, and he seemed to have died when about to scream his vented terror to the impassive heavens.

  This time Nate worked even faster, and in less than a minute he held both scalps in his left hand. He wiped the knife clean on the grass, replaced the weapon in its sheath, clutched the Hawken in his right hand and mounted the mare.

  Shakespeare and the Shoshones were waiting for him.

  “Smartly done,” the mountain man observed as Nate rode up.

  “I didn’t realize I’d have an audience.’ ”

  “You’ve impressed Black Kettle. He just told me he thinks you have the makings of a mighty warrior.”

  “If he only knew.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Nate. Stranger things have happened.”

  Black Kettle said a few words to Winona, then motioned with his right arm and headed for the village, trailed by the five warriors.

  “What did he say to her?” Nate said.

  Shakespeare laughed lightly. “He instructed her to remember she’s a lady.”

  “Why in the world would he tell her that?”

  A peculiar snort, much like the noise made by a young bull frolicking in a pasture with a bovine playmate, issued from the frontiersman. “I hope you won’t mind me saying this, and please don’t take offense, but you are downright pitiful.”

  “In what way?”

  “In every way, my young friend.” Shakespeare nodded at the Shoshone village. “Let’s go to Black Kettle’s lodge. His people will tend to the mess. One of his warriors is fetching our pack horse.”

  Perplexed and feeling slightly hurt, Nate rode along slowly with Shakespeare on his left and Winona walking beside his mare on the right. “I’ll expect a full explanation later,” he stated peevishly.

  “Life will be your explanation.”

  “Sometimes you make no sense whatsoever.”

  “Never forget, Nate, that one man’s ignorance is another man’s past.”

  Nate sighed. “I’ll remember it, but I’ll be damned if I know what it means.”

  Winona interjected a string of remarks in Shoshone, directing them at Shakespeare.

  “Anything I should know?” Nate inquired when he finished.

  “She wants to know if you’re married.”

  Nate almost dropped the scalps.

  “I warned you. She’s got the notion into her dainty head that you’re the rip-roaringest thing in pants, and if there’s one fact I’ve learned during my long and eventful life, it’s this: Women never give up once they’ve fixed their sights on a man. Nine times out often they’ll bag the man they want, and the one exception can usually be blamed on circumstances they can’t control. I don’t care if it’s a white woman or an Indian, a black or a Chinese, an Egyptian or Helen of Troy, they get the man they want.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Of course, another fact I’ve learned is that women are never satisfied once they have their men. Remember this, Nate. There’s no pleasing a woman. Anyone who tries to tell you different has his brains below his belt.”

  Nate smiled down at Winona, and there was no denying the incipient affection in her lively eyes. “Somehow I had the idea Indian woman were shy and retiring.”

  “The shy ones are the worst. They lay the cleverest traps.”

  “You seem to equate romance with hunting and going after game.”

  “You’ve just hit the nail on the head. Romance is a hunt, and for a woman it’s the grandest hunt of all. She throws her wits and her charms into the chase, and the lure she uses is practically irresistible.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “Time will tell.”

  “You can let her know I’m not married,” Nate said. “And whatever else she wants to know.”

  “As you wish, young squire.”

  “Huh?”

  “Remind me to find you a book on Shakespeare. You could use a little of William S.’s wisdom.”

  “I could use a drink.”

  They came to the edge of the village. Bodies lay scattered about, the corpses of men, women, and a few children. The Blackfeet had been relentlessly ruthless in their attack. With sorrow lining their features the Shoshones were going about the miserable business of attending to their dead.

  “Shouldn’t we help them?” Nate inquired.

  “They wouldn’t want our help. This is a private matter to them.”

  Winona unexpectedly dashed off to aid an elderly woman who had sustained a scalp wound and was shuffling around a nearby lodge.

  “Why did the Blackfeet kill women and children? What honor could there be in slaying those who are defenseless?”

  “Defenseless?” Shakespeare repeated, and snorted. “Where’d you ever get a notion like that? It’s true the men do most of the warring, but the women and young’uns are far from defenseless. Both will defend their village when it’s attacked. Indian boys can shoot a bow as soon as they’re old enough to hold one, and Indian women are no slouches when they’re riled. In some tribes women are even allowed to go on raids. The Utes let a woman go along if she wants.”

  “They do?” Nate said in surprise.

  “Yep. Remember that. You might find yourself on the business end of a lance held by a pretty woman some day. What would you do if it happens?”

  “I’d do everything in my power not to harm the woman.”

  Shakespeare smiled. “You would, huh?”

  “I don’t know if I could help myself. I was raised to be a gentleman around ladies.”

  “Ladies are nothing but ordinary women with high airs and fancy clothes. And if you don’t change that attitude of yours, you could end up as a dead gentleman.”

  “Have you ever killed a woman?”

  Shakespeare glanced sharply at his companion. “There are some questions you should ne
ver ask a man, not even a friend.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Here we are,” Shakespeare announced, and reined up in front of one of the lodges. “This is Black Kettle’s teepee.”

  “His what?”

  “Teepee. It’s a Sioux word for lodge.”

  Nate studied the structure before them. The general shape reminded him of the haystacks he had seen on farms. A number of pine poles had been placed on end in the shape of a large circle, then secured together at the top. Dressed buffalo hides served as the outer covering; they had been sewn together and stretched over the pole framework. He estimated the height to be 25 or 30 feet and the diameter of the base to be 20 feet.

  “We’ll have to wait for Black Kettle before we can go in,” Shakespeare mentioned. “In the meantime I’ll fill you in on how to behave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are certain rules you need to know. Do you see that door there?” Shakespeare asked, and nodded at a closed flap.

  “Yes.”

  “If the door is open you can enter a lodge without bothering about formality, but if the door is closed you can’t go in until after you let those inside know you’re there and get an invite. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once you’re in, go to the right and wait for the man of the lodge to ask you to sit down.”

  “Go to the right? Why can’t I go to the left?”

  Shakespeare sighed. “Because the women go to the left. Are you a woman?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then go to the right. The head of the lodge will likely want you to sit on his left. On your way to the spot never pass between the fire and another person.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Indians consider it rude and a bad sign.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Where’s a war club when I need one?”

  “What?”

  “Just pay attention. Always walk behind people seated around a fire. If you’re invited to eat, eat. And you’d damn well better eat every morsel. Don’t leave a crumb or you’ll insult your host.”

  Nate shook his head in amazement. “I had no idea.”

  “I’m not done yet. If the head of the lodge taps his pipe on the ground or asks his woman to unroll his blanket, it’s the signal to leave.”

  “Do I leave on the right side?”

  “No. You fly out the ventilation flap at the top,” Shakespeare answered, and cackled. He slid to the ground and turned.

  Nate climbed down, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. He heard a mournful wail, and pivoted to behold three Shoshone warriors bearing a fourth between them. Walking alongside was a woman with tears pouring from her eyes. Her hands were pressed to her cheeks and she sobbed pitiably.

  “I’m glad you’ve gotten over your squeamishness,” Shakespeare commented.

  “Why’s that?” Nate inquired.

  “Because you’re about to see some sights that can freeze your blood in your veins.”

  Chapter Eight

  Shakespeare, as it turned out, had uttered the understatement of the century.

  While some Shoshones tended to the wounded, others gathered the dead. Three slain Shoshone warriors, five women, and three young boys were laid out in a row near Black Kettle’s lodge. Then the dead Blackfeet were collected, 11 in all, and arranged in a line ten yards to the south.

  Nate observed the proceedings expectantly. He saw the wives of the three deceased warriors throw themselves on the bodies of their husbands, where the women lamented their fate to the heavens and sobbed profusely. The mothers and sisters of the young boys likewise displayed their anguish. But the men vented their sorrow differently.

  Black Kettle and the other Shoshone warriors walked to their fallen foes, took out knives, and commenced to cutting out the hearts, livers, and other organs, all the while voicing piercing yells and howls.

  Aghast at the atrocity he was witnessing, Nate leaned close to Shakespeare. “Why are they mutilating the Blackfeet?”

  “They’re taking revenge for their own people who were killed.”

  “But the Blackfeet are already dead.”

  “Doesn’t matter a lick to them.”

  Nate recoiled in revulsion when the Shoshones began to cut the organs into bits and pieces and then tossed the chunks to the village dogs, which had materialized as if out of nowhere after the battle ended. He bowed his head, feeling a bitter bile rise in his mouth, and when he looked up again the horror had worsened.

  The Shoshones were hacking off the heads of the Blackfeet.

  “This is the part I like the best,” Shakespeare commented.

  Slicing methodically, the Shoshones severed every last Blackfoot head. They each grabbed a grisly trophy in each hand and began to dance and prance, triumphantly waving the heads, shouting in exultation. The women and the children watched happily, beaming in innocent delight.

  “Dear God in heaven!” Nate breathed.

  Shakespeare heard and glanced at his companion. “The white man’s God don’t count for much west of the Mississippi. Most of the tribes believe in the Great Spirit or the Great Medicine. They’re very religious in their way.”

  Nate stared at the Shoshones gloating and cavorting in primitive abandon. “You call these people religious?”

  “You’ve got to remember that one man’s God is another man’s devil.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Don’t judge Indians by our values.”

  “They’re savage by any standard.”

  “So what if they are? Who’s to say white men are any better than them just because the whites are supposedly civilized?”

  Appalled, Nate looked at the frontiersman. “Do you approve of this barbaric conduct?”

  “I won’t lie to you. Yes, I do.”

  Nate took a half step backwards, his abhorrence transparent. “How can you?”

  “It’s the call of the wild.”

  “The what?”

  “The call of the wild. The lure of the wilderness. A zest for life. Whatever you want to call the feeling that grows inside a man if he stays out here long enough. You label the Shoshones as barbaric for defeating their enemies in fair combat and then taking pride in their accomplishment. At least they’re open about it. They’re honestly in touch with their inner feelings,” Shakespeare said. “That’s more than I can say for the white man. Our kind hide their feelings behind a wall of laws, or they deny their feelings rather than offend someone else. If two whites have a dispute, and if they’re too cowardly to settle the issue with a duel, one might sue the other and let a court settle the affair. They never really face their enemy or their own emotions. If they lose, they act as if it doesn’t matter when deep down they want to beat the other fellow to a pulp.”

  Nate gazed at the Shoshones and said nothing.

  “Out here a man enjoys true freedom, the freedom of the wilderness. And if there’s one lesson the wilderness teaches every mother’s son, it’s this: If you bite off more than you can chew, you pay the price. Big bite, little bite, it doesn’t matter. Those Blackfeet bit off more than they could chew, and now the Shoshones are doing what comes naturally.” Shakespeare paused. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Civilization cushions folks from their own mistakes, Nate. Someone in St. Louis or New York doesn’t have to worry about going hungry if they miss a deer or an elk. They can walk down to the comer market and buy all the food they need. And they don’t have to fret about dying of thirst if they get lost and can’t find a spring or a stream. They can get a drink just about anywhere.”

  Nate listened with half an ear, his gaze on the Shoshones as they scalped the heads of the Blackfeet.

  “Civilization is the haven of bullies and the weak,” Shakespeare went on. “A bully can get away with pushing folks around in a big city because he knows few of them will have the gumption to stand up to him. But any man who tries to
impose on another out here is likely as not to be shot for his effort.”

  The Shoshone warriors were now impaling the heads on lances and proudly swinging the lances in the air.

  “And in the wilderness a man can’t afford to be weak. It’s true what they say about only the strong surviving, and sometimes even the strong ones don’t make it. Look at what happened to your Uncle Zeke,” Shakespeare mentioned.

  Nate glanced at the mountain man. “Then why bother?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Why do so many white men come west of the Mississippi to live, to hunt and trap and mingle with the Indians, if life here is so hard and filled with danger? If one little mistake, like leaning down to get a drink from a spring and not checking the rocks for rattlesnakes, can get you killed, why bother staying? Is the freedom you keep talking about worth all the trouble?”

  “That’s a decision you’ll have to make on your own. It’s worth more than all the gold in Creation to me, but it might not be worth a cent to you.”

  “I just don’t know,” Nate said slowly.

  The Shoshone warriors carried the impaled heads to the southern edge of the camp. Once there, they proceeded to dash the heads to the ground repeatedly, smashing the faces to a pulp and splitting several of the Blackfeet craniums. Brains and gore spattered the earth.

  “Why don’t they just bury the bodies and be done with it?” Nate asked distastefully.

  “Indians never bury the dead of their enemies. Why should they send a foe off in style into the Great Mystery? Besides, you’ve got to bear in mind that Indians don’t view dead bodies the same way whites do.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Let me explain. It’s possible for a warrior to count coup on a dead body—”

  “What?” Nate interrupted in surprise. “I thought they counted coup by touching live foes or killing them.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. Some tribes let up to four men count coup on the same enemy. The Crow and Arapahoe do. The Cheyenne, on the other hand, only allow three men to count coup. And the Assiniboin won’t permit the counting of any coup unless the body has been touched, whether it’s alive or dead.”

  Nate shook his head. “I’m confused,” he admitted.