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.”
“No ‘could be’ about it,” Wesley said. “So I won’t hold you to account this time. But if there’s a next, I’ll have to rethink whether you’re worth the aggravation.”
Cranston went to say something, but Olan suddenly leaned over and punched his arm.
“Not a word, you infant!”
Wesley lowered the Kentucky slightly. “I admit this has been rough on all of us. But it’s either push hard now or chase the darkies all the way to the Rocky Mountains.”
“That could take weeks,” Olan said.
“We sure as hell don’t want that,” Bromley remarked.
“Then quit your bellyaching. The next time you—” Wesley stopped in midsentence.
The reason was Trumbo, who had raised a big arm and was pointing to the west. “Look yonder! Is that what I think it is?”
The sun was setting. Only the crown had yet to slip into the nether realm of impending night. And there, barely distinguishable against the backsplash of yellow and pink, was a tiny finger of orange.
“A campfire, you reckon?”
Wesley sniffed like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent. “Wood smoke. They must have stopped for some reason.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Olan said.
“The mountain man hasn’t yet. So let’s not put the cart before the horse. Maybe it’s someone else. A lot of folks cross the prairie this time of year. Or it could be redskins.”
“We should wait until midnight, when all of them will most likely be asleep, and sneak up on them,” Cranston suggested.
“All seven of us?” Wesley scoffed. “Sneak up on a mountain man without him hearing us?”
“You said it might not be him.”
Bromley said, “We can be quiet as mice when we need to be.”
“But can you be quieter than mice?” Wesley asked.
“That ain’t possible.”
“It is if you know how.” Wesley regarded each of them in turn. “Do any of you have any notion what kind of man we’re up against? I’m not talking about the slaves. They don’t have the brains God gave a squirrel, and their senses are as dull as a turnip’s. I’m talking about the mountain man.”
“You said it might not be him,” Cranston repeated.
“Why all this fuss over one man?” Olan threw in. “He puts his britches on one leg at a time just like the rest of us.”
“I knew you didn’t savvy,” Wesley said. “But let me see if I can make it clear.” He lowered the Kentucky. “Mountain men aren’t like you or even me. They’re part white, part Injun, and part animal—”