The Tears of God

Chapter Three

A map never gave a true sense of scale. It said X was five hundred miles from Y, or that at its closest point the Mississippi was nine hundred miles from the Rockies. A person could picture it in his head, but the picture never matched the reality.

This was what went through Nate King’s mind as he hurried eastward from Bent’s Fort on the morning of the sixth day out. There was so much prairie; a sea of it, flowing on, mile after mile after mile. Finding someone in that immense ocean of grass was akin to looking for a tiny bit of driftwood in the middle of the Atlantic or the Pacific.

Nate thought of Evelyn and choked down despair. Ceran St. Vrain had told them that the scalp hunters were ranging wide over the region, killing men, women, and even children and lifting their hair. The question Ceran couldn’t answer was why they were so far north of their usual haunts. It was well known that Texas and the government down to Santa Fe both offered money for scalps. In Texas it was for Comanche hair. In New Mexico it was for Apache scalps. But Texas and Santa Fe were a thousand miles away.

Rumor had it that some scalp hunters weren’t particular about whose hair they lifted. Some would scalp whites and Mexicans, too, so long as the hair could pass for Comanche or Apache. Nate suspected that the band doing the marauding had come north because it would be easy to fill their hair sacks to bulging and then take them to Texas or Sante Fe and claim thousands of dollars in bounty.

Nate couldn’t see them lifting Evelyn’s hair. Hers would never pass for an Indian’s. But the Nansusequas with her had the kind of hair a scalp hunter would love. And if they killed Waku and his family, what might they do to Evelyn? They might not want a witness.

Again despair nipped at Nate and he pushed it back down. Suddenly he realized Shakespeare was calling his name and drew rein. “What is it?” he asked, turning in the saddle.

Shakespeare brought the mare to a stop and pointed. “You need to come out of yourself.”

A mile to the northeast smoke curled to the sky, rising in gray coils like a thick snake climbing into the clouds.

“White men made that fire,” Nate remarked. Indians invariably made their fires small so as not to give them away.

Shakespeare grunted in agreement. “Whoever they are, maybe they’ve seen Evelyn and Waku. We should pay them a visit.”

It took all Nate’s self-control not to push at a gallop. He had already been riding too hard for too long and his bay showed signs of flagging. He held to a quick walk, his insides churning.

“How are you holding up?” Shakespeare asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Horatio.”

Nate rubbed his jaw and scowled. “I can’t help it. I love that girl so much. It’s hard being a parent, the hardest thing there is.”

“If it will help, you can talk about it.”

“All talking will do is make me feel worse.” But Nate couldn’t keep it in. “We raise them and nurture them. We are there as they grow day by day. We grin at their antics and smile at their silliness and feel our hearts fit to burst when they hug us and tell us they love us. We do the best we can to make them ready for the world and one day they go off to take up their own lives and we pray to God nothing bad will happen to them.”

“Evelyn didn’t go off to live somewhere. She went buffalo hunting.”

“We love them so much and it hurts that the world will do to them as it does to everyone. It will rip at them and claw at them and try to crush them and there’s not a thing we can do.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “Aren’t you exaggerating just a tad?”

“You think it’s funny, but it’s not. Every parent’s worst fear is that something terrible will happen to their children. It is the worst that can happen, even more than a wife or husband dying.”

“Good Lord. For all we know, she’s fine. Pull yourself together. Your fear is getting you carried away.”

“I know,” Nate said, and sighed. “I can’t help it. It’s like wrestling with your own heart.”

“Sometimes I wish Blue Water Woman and I had been able to have children,” Shakespeare said wistfully. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”

They could smell the smoke now. A low rise hid the source. Nate placed his Hawken across his saddle, his thumb on the hammer, his finger on the trigger. Not all whites were friendly.

“I hear voices.”

So did Nate. A lot of them, talking in low tones. He slowed as he neared the top of the rise and drew rein the moment he could see over so as not to show himself before he was sure it was safe.

“By my troth,” Shakespeare said. “Freighters, unless I miss my guess.”

Nate came to the same conclusion. He counted ten wagons of the prairie schooner variety. All were red and blue and covered by arched canvas tops. The wagons had been drawn up in a circle, and close to thirty people were moving about or seated at the fire. The wagons hid some from his view. Oxen were being taken from their traces and horses had been gathered to one side. “Bound for Bent’s Fort, I reckon.”

“Let’s ride down and introduce ourselves,” Shakespeare suggested. “We never know. They might have word of Evelyn.”

Nate slapped his legs and rode over the rise. Almost instantly a man with a rifle appeared, a sentry Nate hadn’t noticed. The man hollered and all the men in the circle grabbed rifles and came to watch Nate and Shakespeare approach.

“They are well trained,” Shakespeare remarked. “Whoever is in charge runs a tight train.”

“I bet that’s him there.”

A broad man with bulging shoulders had stridden to the forefront. His big hands were on a pair of pistols. A short-brimmed hat crowned rugged features. From under it poked brown hair a shade darker than the several days’ growth on his square chin.

“I’ve seen that redwood somewhere,” Shakespeare said.

Nate brought the bay to a halt and nodded at the human tree. “Howdy. My name is Nate King. I’m—” He got no further. The man broke into a smile and many of the others glanced at one another and commenced to whisper.

“The Lord, He works in mysterious ways,” intoned their captain. “I’m Jeremiah Blunt. This is my train and these are my men. I can’t tell you how pleased we are to meet you.”

“Why would that be?”

“We have something that belongs to you, in a manner of speaking.” Blunt chuckled, and turning his head, raised his voice. “It’s all right, girl. It’s safe for you and the others to show yourselves.”

For one of the few times in his life Nate was struck speechless when a squealing vision of budding womanhood bounded toward him with glee writ all over her.

“Pa! Pa! It’s you!”

Nate vaulted down. No sooner did his feet touch the ground than Evelyn flew into his arms and hugged him close. Choking off a sob, she said softly, “You don’t know how happy this makes me.”

Nate couldn’t talk for the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes and held her and his thankfulness knew no bounds.

From around the wagons came five people dressed in green buckskins: Wakumassee and his family. Warm greetings were exchanged and then everyone sat around the fire at Jeremiah Blunt’s invitation and over coffee Nate heard of how the scalp hunters had chased his daughter and the Nansusequas and would have slain them had it not been for the freighter captain.

“I’m in your debt,” Nate said, pumping the other’s hand. “Anything you want of me, any time, you have only to ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Nate learned that the freighters had made for Bent’s Fort, only to be delayed by a Sioux war party.

“There must have been sixty or more,” Blunt told him. “I circled the wagons expecting an attack, but they stayed out of rifle range. For ten days they rode around us and whooped and waved their weapons, but they never once came at us.”

“The Lakotas aren’t stupid,” Shakespeare threw in.

“No, they are not,” Blunt agreed. “Our rifles would have taken a fearsome toll. They held us there, maybe figuring to starve us or have us run low on water, until finally they lost interest and went elsewhere.”

“I was awful glad,” Evelyn said. “If they had caught Waku and his family and me alone…” She didn’t finish.

“That makes twice you saved my girl’s life,” Nate said to Blunt.

“Thank the Lord, not me. We are all sparrows in His eyes.”

The time passed so quickly that before Nate knew it, twilight was falling and Blunt’s men were preparing supper. He drained his tin cup of coffee and said, “I take it you are on your way to Bent’s Fort and after that Santa Fe?”

“You take it partly right,” Blunt replied. “We were taking your daughter and her friends to Bent’s. From there she said they could make it home safe by themselves. But it’s not Santa Fe, after. Normally it would be, but this is a special trip.”

“How so?” Shakespeare wondered.

Jeremiah Blunt regarded them thoughtfully. “From what I hear, hardly anyone knows the mountains better than you two. Is that right?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I’ve lived out here longer than most, so naturally I know them pretty well. Horatio has been all over, too.”

“Horatio?” Blunt repeated.

“His nickname for me,” Nate explained. “From William Shakespeare’s play Hamlet.”

“Ah.” Blunt grinned at McNair. “I’ve heard about your quirk. You are as devoted to the Bard as I am to my Bible.”

“A man can be devoted to both,” Shakespeare said.

“True.” Blunt turned to Nate. “But my point in asking how well you know the mountains is that I am thinking of taking you up on your offer.”

“I’m listening,” Nate said. He would do whatever he could for this man. He owed him that.

Blunt swept a stout arm at the ring of wagons. “The freight I’m carrying has been bought and paid for by a group of Shakers. I gave them my word I would get their supplies to them and I always keep it.”

“What are Shakers?” Evelyn asked.

“A religious order, you might say,” Jeremiah Blunt answered. “They broke away from the Quakers some time back. For a while they were called the Shaking Quakers, but now it’s just Shakers.”

“What a funny name. Why would anyone call them that?”

“Because, girl, that’s what they do. When they worship they dance and tremble and, well, shake. They call it growing close to their Maker. Others call it having fits.”

“What do you say?”

“Judge not, girl, lest you be judged. They believe in the Lord and that’s enough for me. But a lot of folks see it differently. They want nothing to do with them, which is why this group came West to start a new colony.”

Nate had heard of them. Their full name, as he recollected, was the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing. They lived in communities or villages all their own and had little to do with the outside world.

Shakespeare cleared his throat. “A new colony, you say?”

“Yes. A place all their own, a valley. I’ve never been there. Their leader, the man who hired me, gave me a map, but it blew away one night when I was studying on how to get there.” Blunt looked at Nate. “That’s the favor I’d like to ask. Unknown territory is always full of hazards for my wagons. I’m hoping you can lead me there and save me a lot of trouble.”

“Where, exactly?” Nate asked.

Blunt pointed to the northwest. “Up near the geyser country. The valley has a peculiar name, but their leader swears it’s a new Eden.”

“What name?”

“It’s called the Valley of Skulls.”

“Zounds,” McNair said, and he did not sound pleased.

“What’s the matter, Uncle Shakespeare?” Evelyn asked him. “Do you know of this place? You, too, Pa?”

Nate nodded.

“You look fit to choke,” Blunt said to McNair. “What do you know that I don’t? Why is it called the Valley of Skulls?”

“It sounds spooky,” Evelyn said.

Nate waited with everyone else for his mentor to speak. He knew some of the valley’s history but not all and he had long been curious.

“To the Indians the valley is bad medicine,” Shakespeare began. “Not just to a few tribes, to all of them. Not one will go anywhere near it.”

“That’s partly why the Shakers picked it,” Blunt said. “To be safe from hostiles. The other part is that the ground shakes from time to time, or so their leader told me. He heard about the valley from an acquaintance of John Coulter’s.”

Nate met Coulter once. Coulter had been with the Lewis and Clark expedition and stayed on exploring after the pair returned to the States. Coulter was the first white man to ever set eyes on the hot springs and geysers that became known as Coulter’s Hell.

Blunt had gone on. “Their leader—his name is Lexington, Arthur Lexington—took it as an omen. The way he told it to me is that the shaking ground is a sign from heaven that the valley is sacred to the Lord, and what better place for a colony of Shakers to live?”

Evelyn fidgeted with impatience. “But no one has said why they call it the Valley of Skulls. Why won’t the Indians go there?”

“Because, sweet angel,” Shakespeare said somberly, “nearly everyone who does dies.”