Page 4 of Heart of the Storm (Hearts Over Wyoming #1)

Four

Baa’koa knelt in the soft earth, brushing the palm of his hand over the trampled grass and inspecting the fresh animal imprint in the soil. Nahko’tah came up beside him, leaning over his shoulder.

“What made those tracks?” There was humor and challenge in his voice. It was a game they liked to play, one that Matso’onah had instilled in them that sharpened their senses and taught them to seek out the smallest detail in their surroundings.

Baa’koa glanced up and raised his eyebrows at his brother. “Pronghorn made these tracks. We’ll have fresh meat to bring home to our family tonight.”

Nahko’tah nodded in agreement. He straightened, backed away, and then lifted his chin, looking much like their father. His eyes narrowed in a challenging stare. “Male or female?”

Baa’koa’s eyes returned to study the tracks left in the ground. He once again placed his hand over the track in a dramatic fashion, then stood. He looked off into the distance as if pondering the question while he hid the smile about to erupt on his face. Nahko’tah’s grin revealed that his brother was sure he’d stumped him for an answer this time.

“Once we follow these tracks,” Baa’koa said slowly, sweeping his arm out in front of him, “and the ones of the young fawn you clearly didn’t see, it will become obvious even to you that we are tracking a female.”

Without looking at his brother for his reaction, Baa’koa swung up on the back of his horse and kneed the animal in the sides. The horse sprang forward obediently, graceful like the antelope they were hunting.

The wind whipped through Baa'koa’s hair, tickling his shoulders as he urged his mount forward. The pounding of hooves was muffled in the soft earth as they raced across an open meadow. The morning sun hadn’t quite reached the tops of the surrounding trees, but with each minute that passed, the valley brightened and promised a warm day.

The scent of dew-covered earth and the sharp tang of sagebrush filled the air as Baa’koa guided his horse toward the hills in the distance, letting the animal pick his own speed. The exuberant colt increased his strides, eager for a good run. Baa’koa leaned low over his horse’s neck as his heart seemed to pound in sync with the rhythm of his animal’s hooves. If only he could outrun the thoughts in his mind that had continued to linger ever since the day the Agaideka messenger had arrived. That had been more than seven sunrises ago.

Baa’koa gripped the colt’s sides with his thighs, but his body refused to relax. Normally he would almost become one with his animal. Nothing was more freeing than to clear his mind while racing across an open field on the back of a horse, but not today.

Behind him, Nahko’tah shouted something, but the words were lost in the wind. When Baa’koa looked up and into the distance, a group of pronghorn bounded ahead of them at the other end of the meadow. His charging horse must have spooked them out of hiding. Clearly, they’d been lying low in the tall grasses, not far from where he’d stopped to inspect the tracks.

He realized his mistake too late. He should have left his horse behind, then he could have approached the pronghorn undetected on foot.

The small band of seven antelope darted left, then right, moving just fast enough to stay ahead of the horse. Baa'koa urged his colt to greater speed, but his mount was hindered by the stiff muscles in his body. He dropped the reins, guiding his horse with only the pressure from his legs, then raised his bow while fumbling with an arrow and took aim.

It was no use. The pronghorn were too quick and agile for him to get a clean shot. The herd easily outran his horse as they expanded their lead. Baa'koa’s focus wavered. He gritted his teeth. The hunt was over before it had even begun. No horse could keep up with a swift pronghorn, especially when they had been alerted to danger.

Baa’koa lowered his weapon and reached for the reins, pulling his horse to slow down, then brought the animal to a full stop. He had hunted pronghorn before countless times. But today, his heart wasn’t in it. Even a young boy knew that this was not the way to hunt an antelope.

His body tensed while his horse danced beneath him, shaking his head in protest for being pulled up. Even the colt could sense his uneasiness, and that his mind was clouded and unfocused.

His grip tightened on the reins, and for a moment, his vision blurred with frustration. The colt hopped beneath him and almost reared, then gave a quick buck. Baa’koa was launched over the animal’s neck and landed with a hard thud in the dirt. He cursed as he coughed and spat out some dirt, then staggered to his feet. He rubbed his aching arm and shoulder as Nahko’tah’s laughter rang in his ear.

As soon as Baa’koa was on his feet, the laughing stopped. He glared at his brother who sat atop his horse a few paces away, casting a puzzled frown at him.

“What were you thinking?” Nahko’tah said, waving his hand in the air. “No horse is fast enough to outrun a pronghorn. Have our father’s teachings become lost to you? I called to you to let you know the pronghorn saw us. Why did you continue running your horse toward them?”

Nahko’tah had every right to sound annoyed. Baa’koa’s jaw tensed. There was no denying that he had acted foolish, like a young, inexperienced boy eager to be on his first hunt. Nahko’tah dismounted his horse. He reached for the bow that lay a few feet away in the dirt and held it out to Baa’koa.

Baa’koa stared at his brother. He simply nodded at Nahko’tah while his gaze was lost somewhere in the distance. The pronghorn were now out of sight. The day was still young, but it already weighed heavy on his mind. He and Nahko’tah would be returning to the village without meat.

“You are troubled,” Nahko’tah said, his voice was calmer. “Even your horse senses it, or he would not have thrown you.”

As usual, Nahko’tah knew him best. There was no denying that he’d been troubled for many days; and with each new dawn, his worries increased. He accepted his bow back, looking at it rather than meeting his brother’s eyes.

“I hoped that hunting would take my mind elsewhere,” he grumbled. “Clearly I was wrong.” He took in a deep breath, but the tightness in his chest and the tension in his muscles refused to ease.

Nahko’tah stared off into the distance where the group of pronghorn had disappeared. “Rabbit or fish sounds good for the evening meal.” His light-hearted voice didn’t sound convincing. He gave Baa’koa a hard pat on the back, then swung back up on his horse.

Baa’koa huffed then walked the short distance to where his horse had stopped and was ripping mouthfuls of the tall grasses as if nothing had happened.

He reached for the reins, then easily swung up on the colt’s back. He clenched his jaw as frustration gnawed at him. His shoulder where he’d landed in the dirt throbbed painfully as a reminder of his failure. Even so, he’d rather endure that kind of discomfort than the troubling thoughts that seemed to be following him everywhere.

Without another word, he turned his horse in the direction of the village. Returning without meat hadn’t been his plan today, but until he could refocus his attention on things that mattered – like providing food for the people of his tribe – rather than dwelling on the coming of white trappers, he wouldn’t be of much use to Nahko’tah or anyone else.

Nahko’tah’s horse fell in step beside him, and they rode back toward the village in silence. While Baa’koa guided his horse through the water of one of the many shallow streams that flowed through the valley, Nahko’tah stopped his mount.

“This is a good place to fish,” Nahko’tah called out.

Baa’koa turned to glance over his shoulder as his horse splashed through the water. He glanced down into the flowing stream. The sun reflected off the surface, creating sparkling ripples that nearly blinded him. The water was clear, revealing the slick rocks that made up the bottom of the stream bed. Returning home with a passel of fish was better than nothing, but it wouldn’t go unnoticed that two hunters had gone out in search of game and only returned with fish.

He brought his horse to a stop once he was across the water, then dismounted. He didn’t have to say anything to his brother. They both knew what to do. On the other side of the stream, Nahko’tah waded into the clear water. He leaned forward, submerging his hands to his elbows. He moved forward slowly as he made his way downstream toward Baa’koa, using the current to his advantage to help direct any fish.

Baa’koa did the same and moved toward his brother. The cool water rushed over his hands as he waited for any fish that Nahko’tah was pushing in his direction. Minutes passed as they maneuvered slowly through the water. They had practiced these tactics, since they were boys and were confident they would chase any fish out of invisible hiding spots.

In this manner, they corralled several fish at once. With swift, nearly imperceptible movements, they each reached out to grab a fish by the tail or body, tossing them onto land. It didn’t take long before they had caught enough to feed themselves as well as their mother and father for the evening meal.

“I bet not even the Agaideka – the Salmon Eaters – could have caught fish any faster.” Nahko’tah grinned as he strung up a half-dozen large trout with a leather strip.

“Pronghorn would have been better,” Baa’koa grumbled. It was his fault that they would be eating fish tonight. Good thing they hadn’t been with a larger party hunting bison. He would have been a danger to everyone.

He shook his head as he mounted his horse and once again headed for home. He simply had to stop dwelling on what might come, and stop thinking about one man in particular. After all these years, would he even recognize him if he came face to face with him?

Baa’koa sat straighter on his mount with renewed resolve. As of this moment, thoughts of white trappers would no longer occupy his mind. As his father had said, they would be ready when the white trappers came.

His lips formed a smile as his gaze fixed on the wild, untamed landscape that spread out ahead and all around him. The cool breeze on his face, bare arms and chest lightened his heart, along with the cadenced sound of hooves on the rich earth. Several hours in the sweat lodge wouldn’t hurt, either. Today, he would fully chase away his troubling thoughts.

Smoke rose in the distance and the familiar tops of teepees came into view a short while later. Baa’koa braced for the stares he and Nahko’tah would receive when they rode into camp without fresh game, but they weren’t the first hunters to ever return empty-handed.

Nahko’tah pulled his horse up abruptly as the village came fully into view. Not a second later, Baa’koa did the same, and at the same time his heart seemed to leap from his chest. Even from a distance, the extra horses and men in camp were easy to spot. Almost twenty horses and more than half that many men. Men dressed in buckskins and other colorful clothing, and wearing hats made from furs or leather. Some had tied red or other colored cloths around their heads instead. They certainly weren’t visitors from a neighboring tribe.

“Trappers,” Baa’koa whispered.

The apprehension that had tightened his chest all day grew. His hand went to the small leather sheath that hung from his neck. He gripped it tightly between his clenched fist, then let go and drew in a deep breath.

His pulse quickened, but he held still. He sat frozen on his horse for a moment as the sun cast a few shadows over the village through the nearby trees. The wind shifted, tickling his bare chest. A low gust swirled through the tall grasses that stretched before him and the village, and the familiar scent of pine and earth mixed in the air. His breath was shallow, the now-familiar uneasiness tightened around his insides as he stared at the figures who had come to his village, a place that had always been a source of safety and comfort.

Beside him, Nahko’tah glanced his way, then pointed. “It would appear as if they have just arrived. Look. Matso’onah is coming to greet them.”

Baa’koa said nothing, his eyes fixed on the men. His heart drummed in his chest, and his mind raced with thoughts of the past, of the man who had taken everything from him. Was he there, among this group of men? Unlikely, but the thought persisted.

Abruptly, he reined his horse toward the nearby grove of trees and nudged the animal into a run. His heart raced in time with the beating of his horse’s hooves. He had to be there to hear what was being said, but he didn’t want to be seen. Entering the village from the tree line would keep him out of sight.

He jumped from the colt’s back, removed the animal’s bridle, and turned him loose. The colt raced across the field toward the herd of horses grazing just outside the village. Nahko’tah did the same with his horse. If any of the white men saw the horses, their attention would be on them, not on two warriors quietly approaching the village from the trees.

“They appear to be friendly,” Nahko’tah remarked as they made their way through the tall grasses toward the first teepees. Nahko’tah didn’t share Baa’koa’s mistrust of the whites. He’d never encountered any nor had he seen firsthand what they were capable of. Baa’koa clenched his jaw. His fingers held his bow in a tight grip, even as he tried to relax his muscles.

There was no need to hide his approach. It might give the wrong impression to the trappers if he and Nahko’tah were seen sneaking into camp, but they skirted around the teepees to approach from a side where their appearance wouldn’t be obvious.

“You go and present the fish to Mother,” Baa’koa said. “I will mingle among the men and stand close enough to hear what is being said.”

They parted ways as they came close to the first teepee. Nahko’tah headed for his mother’s lodge to bring her the fish, while Baa’koa neared the meeting taking place in the center of the village. He positioned himself slightly behind one of the older warriors, who stood quietly with his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching the group of white men who’d come into their midst.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as his gaze swept over the men. Their presence stirred something long buried inside him, bringing thoughts and feelings back to life that he’d forgotten…until the day the Agaideka messenger had arrived. Now that the white trappers were here, those thoughts and feelings grew even stronger.

His heart drummed faster as he scanned the twelve men, dreading what he might see. His eyes lingered on the six older men, but none of them looked familiar. He breathed a quick sigh of relief.

Instinct told him to remain unseen, however, to stay in the shadows and avoid drawing attention. While his hair was nearly as dark as that of any A’aninin, his skin would always be a shade lighter, no matter how much the sun darkened it. If someone looked close enough, he would be recognized as a white man, not born into the tribe.

The man who appeared to be the leader of the group was an older man. He walked with a slight limp and didn’t stand quite as straight, probably a result of many harsh years in the wilderness. His beard was shaggy and tinged with gray hair. On his head was a cap made from the pelt of a raccoon. His broad face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp, constantly scanning and alert. He raised a hand to greet the gathered villagers. It was a slow, deliberate movement, as if he was used to being met with both suspicion and curiosity.

Beside him, another older man stood. He had no facial hair, and his eyes looked over the gathering with a quiet curiosity, but there was also caution in the man’s gaze.

Four more older men stood slightly to the back, and the others were all younger, probably close to Baa’koa’s age. One was larger than the rest, his broad shoulders and thick arms making him stand out like a bear even from this distance. He stood in quiet contrast to the smaller man beside him, who was barely noticeable unless one looked closely.

Baa'koa’s eyes narrowed as he observed them. These were not like the men who had come to the wilderness when he was just a boy. The men his white father had joined had all been rough and calloused men, or perhaps it had only seemed that way to a frightened young boy.

The old leader of the group raised his hand in greeting, and spoke at the same time. His use of sign talk with hand motions was practiced and easily understood among the people of the A’aninin. Speaking with hands had long been used to communicate across language barriers among all the tribes.

The trapper used his hand and made a dropping motion, which was the sign of the A’aninin people. Yet, when he spoke in a raspy voice, he said, “Greetings to the chief of the Gros Ventre people. One of yer neighboring tribes told us about ya and that we would find honorable men among ya we can trade with. My name’s Josiah Butler, and this here is Will Parker.” He motioned to the man next to him, who raised his hand in greeting.

Baa’koa’s eyes narrowed. Long ago, he had heard trappers at the fort he’d visited with his white father speak French, which was the language this trapper used when referring to the A’aninin, but the meaning of the words he used were lost to him. The rest of the man’s words were spoken in English. Although it had been more than twelve years since he’d heard anyone speak it, the language was still familiar and easy to understand.

Matso'onah held up his own hand in greeting. He stood at the front of the gathered villagers, his tall figure commanding attention. When he spoke and used the appropriate hand signs, it was with quiet confidence. “My people welcome you.”

"We come with goods to trade with your people,” Josiah Butler continued.

Matso'onah studied the man’s gestures carefully, then answered with a nod. His hand moved in a deliberate arc, signaling that he understood.

Josiah gestured toward the men behind him, indicating that they could start to unpack their goods. The younger trappers moved to their pack horses. They untied leather sacks and began to lay out various goods. Some of the women of the village gasped with delight.

Matso'onah’s guarded demeanor softened slightly. Metal tools, cloth, dried meat, and other wares – all items that could be useful – were laid out before them. Baa’koa’s eyes lingered on the weapons the men carried – long wooden sticks that the people of his tribe didn’t realize were weapons far more powerful than the bows and arrows the warriors carried.

The people began to trade. Women brought their finest deerskins to trade for some of the metal pots, colorful beads, and cloth. Josiah Butler kept up a lively conversation as he stood with Matso’onah, who oversaw the exchange of goods. Butler laughed a lot, and his voice bellowed above the others. Most of the time he forgot to use hand signs when he spoke.

“Them young pups over there are jes greenhorns if ya ask me,” he said, pointing to the younger men. “Good fer nothin’ but carryin’ out orders. Tallan there is the best of the bunch, but even though they’s jes greenhorns, they’re good boys. Don’t let ‘em know I said that, though, or it’ll go to their heads.”

“Quit yer praddlin’, Josiah. The chief doesn’t know what you’re saying,” the one called Will Parker said, stepping up and waving his hand at Butler.

Nahko’tah came up beside Baa’koa at that moment. “Are you still troubled, brother? These men don’t seem as dangerous as you believe.”

Baa’koa kept his eyes on the trappers, who were laughing and smiling with the women and the other warriors.

“No, perhaps not these men,” he said slowly. He certainly hadn’t been able to sense any maliciousness from these trappers.

His stance relaxed, but he remained standing apart from all the activity. Perhaps all of his misgivings and uneasy thoughts had been a waste of time, because his last memory of white men included the unjust death of his father at the hand of a man he’d trusted.