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.”
