I did not know what to do. My instinct was to flee, but Zach had told me never to run, that to take flight nearly always provoked an animal into giving chase. But he had been talking about meat eaters at the time. I wondered if the same applied to buffalo.
The bull snorted again, and repeated its gouging of the earth with its great dark hoove.
I thought that if I stayed stock-still it would lose interest and leave, but instead it took a step toward me and rumbled deep in its massive chest, a prelude, for all I knew, to rushing me.
Then I remembered Zach saying how he once calmed a black bear that had been about to charge him by speaking quietly to it. I tried the same tactic. “There, there,” I said softly. “I would rather not be gored or trampled, if you don’t mind. You go your way and I will go mine.”
The buffalo shook its head, as if my words were buzzing insects that annoyed it. It sniffed loudly.
I recalled something else. Zach had warned me that animals could smell fear, and that a predator might take that as a sign of easy prey. But buffalo were not predators in the true sense. They only attacked when provoked. Or so I fervently prayed.
The bull took another step.
I swore I could hear the hammering of my heart. I was near breathless with dread.
I decided to slowly back away. That would show I posed no threat. But the instant I moved my foot, the buff rumbled and snorted and bobbed its head, its horns like twin swords.
Moving only my eyes, I glanced to the right and the left, seeking a tree I could climb. There were plenty, but none I could reach before the buffalo reached me.
Then a second shaggy form appeared. I tensed my legs to flee. But the second buffalo, a cow, gave a grunt and turned around, and the bull wheeled and followed after her. Then the whole herd, which I estimated to be about ten animals, moved off.
My relief was so profound, I grew weak in the legs. My knees nearly buckled. I smothered an impulse to laugh, afraid the sound might bring the bull back.
A hand fell on my shoulder and I almost jumped out of my skin.
“You handled that well,” Zach said.
Sweat was trickling down my brow, and I mopped it with a sleeve. “You were behind me the whole time?”
Zach had my rifle as well as his, and he held mine out to me. “You forgot this.”
“Would you have shot if it charged us?”
“I would do what I could.”
The implication, of course, was that the bull would have killed us. “I must be more careful,” I said with a pasty grin.
“You must be more careful,” Zach agreed, but he was not grinning.
The next event of note occurred days later.
We came to another stream and followed it to where it forked. Zach drew rein and shifted in the saddle to inform me, “This is where I blindfold you.”
“Is that really necessary?” I was mildly irritated. We had been getting along so well, and he had been so friendly, I assumed he had given up on the idea.
“You agreed,” Zach reminded me.
I submitted, but I was not happy about it. He used a strip of buckskin from a parfleche.
My horse was added to the string. I know not how many miles we traveled, but it took forever. Since I did not have the reins in hand, I held to the saddle. Every dip and roll seemed worse than it would have if I could see. Why that should be I cannot say, unless it was that in being deprived of sight, my other senses were sharpened. Twice I was nearly unhorsed. Once, when a tree limb brushed my arm and I gave a start, and again when rocks were clattering from under us and my mount stumbled.
My patience came to an end, and I curtly demanded, “How much longer?”
“It is not far now.”
“I hope this valley of yours is all you claim it to be.” I was being petty to spite him.
“You will find out soon enough.”
We had been climbing for thousands of feet. The ringing echo of the clomp of our horses suggested we were in a canyon. Then the echoes stopped, and I had the impression, by the sound of muted thuds and the rustle of leaves, that we were in a forest. “Are we there yet?” I asked.
Zach laughed.
“What do you find so amusing?”
“You remind me of my sister when she was ten.”
I did not know how to take that, but it did not sound like a compliment. “You can hardly fault me,” I responded. “How would you like to be led around blindfolded for mile after mile?”
“I wouldn’t like it one bit.”
I admired his honesty. He must have reined up because my horse came to a stop, and the next I knew, fingers were prying at the strip. We were in heavy timber. A shaft of sunlight was on my face, causing me to squint against the bright glare. Blinking, I looked about, but all I saw were trees and more trees. “Is this King Valley?”
Zach laughed again, tossed me the lead rope to my packhorse, and clucked to his own mount. “Stay behind me so you don’t take an arrow.”
“How is that again?”
He did not answer but goaded his bay into a trot. Eager to see his loved ones, I suspected, and I kept up with him as best I was able. To be honest, he was a far better horseman than I could ever hope to be.
Once, down on the prairie, I had been trying to sketch and ride at the same time when I dropped my sketchbook. He happened to be riding beside me at the time, and when I lifted my reins to swing around and retrieve it, he said, “Let me.” And just like that, he wheeled his horse in a loop while dropping onto its side as it turned so that he hung by a forearm and an ankle. Then, as neatly as you please he snatched up my sketchbook and swung back up. All, mind you, in a fraction of the time it takes me to describe the feat. I complimented him, and he offhandedly remarked that he had learned the trick when he was seven, on his Indian pony. Seven! When I marveled at his ability, he said that it was “nothing,” that if I wanted to see real riding, I should see the Comanches.
“The only problem with that,” he observed matter-of-factly, “is that when you see Comanches, they are usually out to kill you.”
In any event, here we were, threading through dense woodland, when up ahead I glimpsed a patch of blue that must be the lake he had mentioned now and again. I also spied something else, and it so surprised me that I drew rein in amazement. “What in the world?”
You see, Zach had told me about the three cabins I should expect. To the north of the lake was his; to the west of the lake was his father’s; to the south of it stood the cabin belonging to Shakespeare McNair. But Zach had not said anything about another dwelling, one so remarkable and so out of place, that for a few seconds I was under the illusion I was in an Eastern forest and not deep in the Rockies.
Before me was a large lodge constructed of logs and intertwined limbs. In effect it was a conical mound, a type of structure I had encountered among Eastern tribes but never imagined I would come across out here. The lodge itself was unusual enough, but the entire outer surface had also been painted a vivid green.
I had barely absorbed this wonder when I beheld figures moving toward us. Indians, judging by their features and their buckskins. Their clothes, strangely enough, had been dyed the same vivid green as their lodge. The two in the lead were men, one twice as old as the other, with enough similarities of face and build to suggest they were father and son. Both were armed with bows and had arrows nocked to the strings. The youngest started to raise his, then smiled and exclaimed, “Stalking Coyote!”
I looked at Zach in puzzlement.
“My Shoshone name.”
“Not that,” I responded, and motioned at the lodge and the family of Indians. “You never said anything about
“Oh.” Zach drew rein. “They are Nansusequa. The last of their kind. They are from east of the Mississippi. Their village and all their people were wiped out by whites who wanted their land. We are letting them live
