The Scalp Hunters

there was a splat and one of its eyes was no longer there. He clutched at the mane as the horse went into a roll. At the last moment he tried to throw himself clear and something struck his head a powerful blow that sent him plunging into a black pit.

Wolf’s Tooth and Plenty Elk wheeled their animals and raced back the way they came. Hornets buzzed their ears. Suddenly Wolf’s Tooth’s shoulder burst in a shower of blood. He swayed and would have fallen if not for Plenty Elk, who reined in close and leaned over to steady him. Then they were in the gully and flew like the wind.

Behind them, the white man with the flinty eyes howled with fury.

Chapter Two

Green was the color of life. Green was the color of the Manitoa in all things. Green was the color most revered by the Nansusequa. Once, they were a proud and peaceful people, living deep in the virgin woodland of the East. Now there were only five Nansusequa left. The rest had been massacred by outraged whites. It didn’t matter that the whites were to blame for the outrage; they wanted the land the Nansusequa lived on for themselves.

One family escaped the slaughter. Their peace chief, Wakumassee, fled with his wife and son and daughters. Their flight took them to the Mississippi River and across a nigh-endless sea of grass. After much hardship, they wound up at the base of emerald foothills, bumps compared to the snowbound peaks beyond that reared majestically miles high into the sky.

Fate brought them to a remote valley where Nate King befriended them and invited them to stay. Grateful beyond measure, they accepted. Every day Wakumassee gave thanks for the gift of King’s friendship and for the happiness of having a place where his loved ones were safe. A haven far removed from the greed and bigotry that cost the Nansusequa so dearly.

It was a sobering thought; Waku and his family were the last of their kind, the last of the People of the Forest. For untold winters his people had lived in harmony with the green world around them and thrived. Then along came the white man. To their kind, the land wasn’t a friend to be nurtured and cherished; it was property to be owned and used as the whites saw fit. When Waku first met them, it had taken a while for him to understand their way of seeing the world. When he finally did, he had been shocked to his core.

To be fair, not all whites were that way. Nate King wasn’t. Shakespeare McNair wasn’t. There were others, whites who regarded the world much as the Nansusequa did, as a precious gift to be treated with the utmost respect.

Now, drawing rein on the horse Nate King had given him, Waku gazed out over the vast rolling prairie and breathed deep of the grass-scented air. The warm sun on his face, the wind that stirred his long black hair—life was good again.

“Why have we stopped, husband?” asked Tihikanima. Her green dress, like his green buckskins, were symbols of their devotion to Manitoa. “Have you seen something I haven’t? Is there danger?”

Waku grunted. His wife tended to worry. But then, it was his opinion, based on many winters of marriage, that if women didn’t have something to fret about, they made something up so they could. An opinion he kept to himself. “Be at peace, woman. All is well.”

“Is it?” asked Tenikawaku, their oldest daughter, who had seen but seventeen winters. She bobbed her head at two of their party who had fallen behind.

Mikikawaku, at twelve the youngest, giggled. “Our brother spends more time with her than he does with us.”

The brother she referred to was Degamawaku. At nineteen winters, he was as lithe and tawny as a cougar. He had the dark hair and dark eyes of the Nansusequa, and at the moment those eyes were on the white girl who rode beside him.

Evelyn King was close to Tenikawaku’s age. She wore buckskins and moccasins and had a Hawken rifle cradled in her left arm and a pair of pistols tucked under a leather belt. Vitality gleamed in her green eyes, the same vitality that made her every movement as fluid as the graceful leaps of an antelope. “Look at me, Dega.”

Degamawaku was puzzled. Why did she tell him to look at her when he already was? He was trying hard to master the white tongue, but it was proving as easy as wrestling a mud-slick snake. “I look.”

“Here I am, wearing buckskins instead of a dress and traipsing around the prairie with you and your family. You’d never think to look at me that two years ago I had it fixed in my head that I was going to move back to the States.”

“The States?”

“Yes. Remember? That’s what my people call the land east of what you call the Father of Rivers. I was bound and determined to be a city girl and spend the rest of my days in civilized society.”

Dega wasn’t sure what all of that meant. He seemed to recall that whites called their villages “cities.” What appalled him was the idea that she wanted to leave the mountains. “You still want go?”

Evelyn shook her head. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to stay out here.”

“Why?”

Evelyn glanced away. She wasn’t about to tell him of the strange feelings that had come over her lately, feelings the likes of which she never felt, feelings she only felt when she was around him or thinking about him.

“Why?” Dega asked again to show her he was genuinely interested.

Evelyn shrugged. “It’s just one of those things. We think we know what we want when we don’t. I reckon if we all knew our own minds as well as we like to think we do, we wouldn’t make as many mistakes.”

Dega tried to link her words into some semblance of meaning. As best he could work it out, she was saying that it was important to think. “True,” he agreed. Given his limited grasp of her tongue, he had found that simple answers were best.

Evelyn smiled. “Have you noticed how much alike we are? Oh, I know you’re red and I’m white, and you’re a guy and I’m a girl. But deep down we have a lot in common.”

Dega uttered the first thing that popped into his head. “We both have noses and feet.”

Peals of mirth rippled from Evelyn. “Goodness gracious, the things you come up with. You’re a hoot, Dega, and that’s no lie.”

Dega remembered being told once that a “hoot” was the sound an owl made. But since he hadn’t made an owl sound he must be missing her meaning. “I hoot?”

“It means you make me smile.”

“That good, yes?” Dega asked. His people had long believed that making others happy was one of the reasons they came into the world. Making Evelyn happy was especially important to him.

“That’s very good.” Evelyn glanced away again. She was becoming much too brazen, she told herself. Never once, by word or deed, had Dega so much as hinted that he cared for her any more deeply than he cared for his sisters.

“I be glad you come hunt,” Dega remarked.

“That’s another thing. I’ve never been much of a hunter. Oh, I’ve killed for the supper pot. But I never went on a buffalo hunt with the Shoshones even though my mother and uncle practically begged me.”

“My father want buffalo meat.” Dega had been perfectly content to stay in King Valley and spend every spare moment he could with Evelyn. Then his father took it into his head to go hunt buffalo.

“Blame Shakespeare McNair. He went on and on about how exciting it is to bring down a big buff, and he got your pa all excited.” Evelyn gestured. “Now here we are.”

So long as she was there, Dega didn’t care where they were. “Here,” he said happily.

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“How life works out sometimes. We’re walking along minding our own business and life kicks us in the britches.”

Confusion racked Dega. He remembered that “britches” was a white word for “pants,” and that “life” referred to being alive, but he couldn’t fathom what being alive had to do with being kicked in the pants. So he did what he