The Outcast

WILDERNESS #60: THE OUTCAST David Thompson

A Vow of Vengeance

“Lou is still alive,” Shakespeare said. “She’s been taken by the Bloods.”

A hot sensation spread from Zach’s neck to the top of his head. “I’ll count coup on all of them.”

“Blue Water Woman only saw one, but there must be more.” Shakespeare snagged Zach’s sleeve as Zach turned. “Be careful. The Bloods are good fighters and damn clever. They’ll be expecting someone to come after them. They’ll be ready.”

“They won’t be ready for me,” Zach vowed, and was out the door in long lopes.

Dedicated to Judy, Joshua and Shane. And to Beatrice Bean, with the most loving regard.

The End

He came out of the north, out of a land of virgin forests and icy winters, out of a land where lights danced in the night sky and the wendigo feasted on human flesh.

He had traveled so far, he could not say how many sleeps it had been. He was weary to his bones, but he didn’t show it. He sat his horse straight and tall, his shoulders back, his chin high. No one would know to look at him that a dark secret hung over him like a cloud. No one would know that his own people had banished him.

He called himself the Outcast. That was all. It was not his name. He gave up his old name when he gave up his old life. Or, rather, when they made him give it up and cast him from the tribe.

The Outcast had been following a mountain stream for half a day when he became aware he was being stalked. There were three of them. They were young and clumsy. They intended to count coup on him. They intended to kill him and take his horse and his weapons and his parfleche. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Others had tried to kill him. A lot of others. To many tribes, a stranger was an enemy to be slain on sight. A few tribes, too few, welcomed strangers in friendship. He had stayed with one of them until they found out what he had done and asked him to move on.

The sun was at its zenith. In the woods a jay screeched and a squirrel scampered high above from limb to limb. Small black and yellow birds played in a thicket.

The Outcast came to a clearing. He decided this was a good place for the stalkers to die. Climbing down, he patted his pinto. “Once again, old friend.” He was fonder of the pinto than he had been of any horse he ever owned. He got it in trade from a Piegan who took it as a spoil on the field of battle. Few of his people owned pintos, and he had been the envy of many.

The Outcast led the pinto to the stream and let it drink. He stretched, saw his reflection, and frowned. He was big for his kind, big in frame but not in belly, and wore beaded buckskins typical of his people. His brow was high, his face long. He had black hair that reached his shoulders and was touched at the temples by early gray. A forelock hung over the middle of his brow. In his younger days the women had counted him handsome.

The women. At the thought, a tremble racked him, and he closed his eyes and groaned.

A nicker by the pinto reminded him he was about to have visitors. He slid his bow and quiver from the sheath she had made for him so very long ago. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and slid an arrow out and nocked it to the sinew string. Then he faced the forest.

“I am waiting. Come and slay me if you can.” The Outcast doubted they understood him. The tongue of his people was different from most every other.

The challenge brought them into the open, as the Outcast knew it would. They had to accept it or bear the shame of cowardice, and no warrior worthy of the name could bear that taint. They wore buckskins of a style new to him, and their long hair hung in braids. One had a lance, the second a bow, the third a club with a metal spike, a weapon new to him, as well.

The one with the lance took a step forward and went on at length in his own tongue.

What he said, the Outcast had no idea. A challenge, no doubt. When the Outcast didn’t reply, the young warrior leaned the lance against his chest and his hands flowed in sign talk. ‘Question: You called?’

The Outcast stood as still as a tree.

‘Question: Where you sit?’

The youth was asking where the Outcast was from, but the Outcast didn’t answer.

‘Question: You know sign talk?’

That was the first thing the Outcast would have asked. Of course he knew it. Most tribes did. He decided to try. They wouldn’t listen but he would try. Setting down his bow and arrow, he signed, ‘Go far. Go fast.’

The young warrior with the lance stiffened. ‘This our land. We strong. You give horse. We let you live.’

So there it was. The Outcast picked up his bow and held it in front of him, and waited.

‘Question: You want die?’

The Outcast drew the string back and sighted down the arrow. He let fly and the shaft flew true, the barbed