The Tears of God

We let no one impose on us, ever, and are beholden to no one unless we want to be.”

Haskell shrugged. “So what if there are laws I have to live by? They’re for the good of all.”

“So they say. But every law is another bar in the invisible prison that pens men in.”

“You have a peculiar outlook.”

Nate wondered. Most men were like the freighter lieutenant, content to live as others wanted them to. He couldn’t stand being told what to do. To him, the free life was the only life worth living.

“Say, what are those?” Haskell abruptly asked, and pointed.

Far to the north stick figures moved. Nate drew rein and brought out his spyglass. “Riders,” he announced. “Ten or more.” He could make out lances and shields. “Indians.”

“What tribe are they from?”

“I can’t tell at this distance.”

Haskell gazed about at the flat grassland. “There’s nowhere to hide. Do we run for it?”

Nate adjusted the telescope, seeking to see the warriors better. “They’re heading east, not in our direction.” He lowered the spyglass. “We should be fine right where we are.”

“Why have they stopped?”

Nate looked. The entire band had indeed halted. He raised the spyglass and was disconcerted to discover the warriors had turned their mounts and were staring to the south—straight at Haskell and him.

“Have they seen us?”

Nate lowered his telescope again. A splash of sunlight off the brass tube explained what had happened. “Oh, hell.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you cuss. You have me worried, mountain man.”

Nate was growing concerned, too. The warriors were galloping toward them. Each had a shaved head except for a spine of hair down the middle. “They’re Pawnees.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It depends. Sometimes the Pawnees are friendly.”

“And the other times?”

“Let’s just say we need to keep our wits about us if we want to go on breathing.”

Chapter Five

The exact number was eleven. All were stocky and powerfully built. They slowed and spread out as they neared Nate and the bull-whacker. Haskell nervously fingered his rifle and said, “I don’t get why we’re not riding like our backsides are on fire.”

“They’d catch us,” Nate predicted.

“Then shoot a few now before they get too close.”

“That would only make the rest mad.” Nate shook his head. “We’ll do this my way. Follow my lead. Don’t talk. Just keep an eye on them. If they act as if they’re going to stick us with their arrow and lances, we’ll fan the breeze.”

“You’re taking an awful gamble.”

“I know,” Nate admitted. He reined the bay broadside to the Pawnees and held his Hawken across his saddle so the muzzle pointed at them. “Remember. I do the talking.”

“Fine by me,” Haskell said. “I don’t speak a lick of Injun. Not even that hand talk they use.”

Nate supposed it was normal for a freighter not to make the effort. For him it had been essential he learn sign language.

“King?”

“Hush now.”

The warriors were soon upon them. Slightly ahead of the rest rode one who carried himself with an air of authority. When he drew rein so did the rest. No weapons were brandished, but they held them ready.

Nate was set to explain that Haskell and he weren’t enemies and it would be best for everyone if they went their separate ways when the apparent leader addressed him in English.

“White man.”

“Chaticks-si-Chaticks,” Nate said. It was the Pawnee name for their people. It meant “men of men,” which showed their opinion of other tribes.

The leader’s surprise showed. “You know of us? Do you speak our tongue?”

“Only a few words,” Nate admitted. “But it is good you know mine so I can tell you we want no trouble with the Chaticks-si-Chaticks.”

“Only one of us may call another of us by that name,” the warrior said stiffly. “You may call us what the rest of your kind do.”

“Very well, Pawnee,” Nate said. “How is it you speak my language?”

“I speak English. I speak French. I speak Spanish. How many tongues do you speak?” The warrior didn’t wait for an answer. He sat taller and and thrust out his chest. “I am a Chaui. Do you know what that means, white man?

Nate was aware that the Pawnees were made up of four groups. The Chaui were the leaders. “How are you called?”

“I am Kuruk,” the warrior proudly declared. “It means ‘bear.’ ”

“I have an Indian name,” Nate revealed, and had to smile at the irony. “I’m called Grizzly Killer.”

Kuruk gave a start. “The white Shoshone?”

“You have heard of me?”

“I have seen you. But it has been so long I did not recognize you.”

Nate racked his brain and said, “If we’ve met it is news to me. Your face isn’t familiar.”

“Think back, white man,” Kuruk said harsly. “Think back seventeen winters. You were a guest in a village of my people.”

Nate was jolted by the memory. He hadn’t been a guest; he had been a virtual prisoner, a pawn in a struggle for power between a medicine man and a chief. “I remember being there, but I don’t remember you.”

“Do you remember a warrior called Red Rock?” Kuruk asked bitterly. “He was my uncle.”

Nate never forgot a man he killed. Sometimes at night he woke up drenched in sweat from dreams where he relived the killings. “He was trying to stab me. I defended myself.”

Kuruk seemed not to hear. “I was a boy then. I loved my uncle very much. He gave me a pony. He treated me as his own son.” Kuruk glared at Nate. “It made me mad that his killer got away.”

Haskell said, “Uh-oh.”

“Now here you are,” Kuruk continued, and smiled coldly. “Tirawa has brought you to me after all these winters.”

Nate had not heard that word in a long time. Tirawa was the Pawnee god, the being who created the Pawnees and taught them to hunt and to make fire and gave them their language. Tirawa, who demanded regular human sacrifice in order for the Pawnees to reap the god’s blessings. “I hope we have no quarrel, you and I. As you say, it was long ago.”

Kuruk’s dark eyes flitted from Nate’s face to the Hawken across Nate’s saddle and then back again. “Long ago,” he repeated. He said something in Pawnee and the others studied Nate intently.

“They’re fixing to lift our hair,” Haskell whispered. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Nate raised the barrel just enough that the muzzle was pointed at the Chaui. They all heard the click of the hammer. “Do we have a quarrel?”

For seconds that seemed like minutes, Kuruk just sat there. Then his smile slowly widened and became even colder. Hate he couldn’t hide was in his eyes and his tone as he said, “We have no quarrel, Grizzly Killer. We will let you go in peace.” So saying, he reined sharply around and the rest followed suit. Tendrils of dust rose from under the pounding hooves of their mounts as they rode off to the northeast. Not one looked back.

Haskell let out a long breath. “Whew. I thought for sure this was the day I’d meet my Maker.”