Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Dunne asked when she didn’t respond right away. “My horse is tuckered out. Let’s give the animals a breather.”

  Lou’s heart waged war with her better judgment, and her better judgment won. Barely. Sliding down, she wrapped the reins around a bush. “How far ahead of us do you think they are?”

  Dunne squatted and examined the tracks. “I’d say three or four hours, not much more. They haven’t stopped once, and that puzzles me. Why are they in such a consarn hurry?”

  “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Greeners are always a mite peculiar.” Dunne gazed at her. “Always putting on airs, acting as if they know all there is to know about living in the wilds, when they don’t know a bear’s hind end from their own.”

  Lou turned her back to him. Greenhorns weren’t the only ones who acted high and mighty. Dunne had a knack for it himself.

  “Take your friends, for instance. They left their homes and kin to become trappers. They rode pretty near a thousand miles, came all this way, for nothing. If they had taken the time to ask around before they left, they’d have spared themselves a lot of aggravation.”

  “How was anyone to know? We thought beaver fur was as popular as ever.” Lou was tired of her charade, but she couldn’t have him divining the truth.

  “One of the first lessons I ever learned was to always look before I leap.” Dunne slowly approached. “Another was to never judge others by how they appear. Appearances can be tricky.”

  “That they can,” Lou absently agreed, not interested one whit in what he had to say.

  “Take you, for instance.”

  “Me?”

  “No one would ever guess the truth.”

  Louisa pivoted. She didn’t like how he was staring at her, didn’t like the budding leer on his face. “What truth?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t catch on?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lou bluffed.

  “You’re a liar!” Bartholomew Dunne stated flatly. Stopping, he cradled his rifle in the crook of an elbow. “I’ve got to admit, you had me fooled for quite a while. You look like a boy and dress like a boy, but under those buckskins is something else entirely.”

  “What do you mean?” Lou asked, a terrible premonition stealing over her, to be dwarfed by surging rage.

  “I had to find out. Last night while you were asleep, I checked. I touched you. Only once, mind, but it was enough to—”

  Lou flew at him, hitting his chin, his chest. But he was much larger, much heavier. Her blows had no telling effect. Stepping back, she grabbed for a flintlock. Dunne was on her in a quick stride, the stock of his rifle sweeping out and in. It drove into the pit of her stomach, doubling her over.

  “We can’t have you shooting me,” the trapper mocked.

  A foot lashed out, snagging Lou’s ankle. She was shoved onto her back and a moccasin was placed on her chest.

  “Behave and it’ll go easier.”

  Lou punched his leg. Without warning, Dunne stomped on her. It felt as if her ribs caved in, and for terrible moments she couldn’t catch her breath. Blurred vision prevented her from interfering as Dunne stripped her of weapons.

  “You won’t be needing these, girly. Now, why don’t you tell me who you really are and what you’re really doing here.”

  Mad enough to rip into him tooth and nail, Lou marshaled her strength and did just that. But as she surged up off the ground, his rifle surged down and clipped her on the temple. She sprawled on her belly, her ears ringing, bright dots floating before her eyes.

  “I can wallop you until the cows, come home,” Dunne said. “Or you can spare yourself a mountain of misery by answering me.” He placed a foot on her neck and pressed. “What’s your real name?”

  Anguish speared Lou like a Sioux lance. “I’ve already told you. Lou Clark.”

  “The truth, girl.” Dunne ground his heel down.

  “Louisa May Clark!” she shouted, thrashing.

  “Louisa? Ah. That’s better. And how old are you?” Lou was about to lie, to claim she was older than she actually was, but a tiny voice warned her to do the opposite. “I’m fourteen.”

  “That young?” Dunne removed his foot and stepped back. “I took you for slightly older. Why, you must be pure as the driven snow.”

  “So?”

  “So it complicates things.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, girly. You will.”

  Lou didn’t like the sound of that. Frustration, outrage, and yes, fear, threatened to sap her will, to turn her to mush, but she resisted, rallied, and sat up.

  “Who are we chasing?” Dunne inquired. “The truth,” he warned. “Don’t insult me by saying it’s a brigade of free trappers. I’ve had doubts all along.”

  “It’s my family and some friends.” Lou fabricated more falsehoods in the hope it would influence how he treated her. “My ma, my pa, my brothers and others. Harm me and they’ll make you pay.”

  Dunne clucked like an irate hen. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?” His foot was a blur. It caught her on the shoulder and dumped her onto her back. “If they were kin of yours, they’d be scouring these mountains from top to bottom. But they’re only interested in getting somewhere fast. Hell, they don’t even know you exist, do they?”

  “One is a friend of mine,” Louisa hedged, pushing up again. Her shoulder was sore but otherwise fine. “Honest.”

  “And the rest? Do they know about you?”

  Lou was set to say yes, but Dunne anticipated her and balled his left fist. “No. Except for my friend.” Inspiration prompted her to add, “They took her against her will.”

  “Her? It’s another girl?”

  “No, she’s older than me. A grown woman. Twenty-four. And a lot lovelier than I’ll ever be.” Dunne was intently interested. “You don’t say? And you have no idea who these jaspers are?”

  “I never saw them before. They stole into camp while I was off gathering wood, bundled her onto a horse, and lit out. I’ve been after them ever since.”

  “What were the two of you doing all alone?”

  “We were on our way back from Bent’s Fort. My folks settled in a valley northeast of here about a year and a half ago. Her family showed up eight or nine months later. We’ve been best friends ever since.”

  “More stinking settlers?” Bartholomew Dunne scratched his lice-ridden beard. “They’re multiplying like rabbits. Must be fifteen to twenty by now. Next thing you know, they’ll build a town, and the mountains will never be the same.”

  A hundred towns could spring up, for all Louisa cared. She measured the distance between them, calculating whether she could wrest a pistol from him before he knocked her down again, or worse. “You believe me, then?”

  Dunne guffawed good-naturedly. “Girly, something tells me you’re the god-awfullest liar who ever lived. I’ll believe every word you say the day cows learn to fly. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what? I’m not doing it out of the kindness of my heart. If you weren’t so scrawny, I’d make do with you.”

  The insult incited Lou to snap, “Scrawny, am I? I’ll have you know a certain fella thinks I’m as pretty as a peach.”

  “He must need spectacles. I’ve seen chickens with more meat on their bones than you.”

  His comments left Lou momentarily speechless. Sputtering, she stammered, “Why—why—you’re the most insulting man I’ve ever met! Have you no shame?”

  “Not a lick,” Dunne unabashedly admitted while sidestepping to his packhorse. From a parfleche he removed a coiled rope.

  “What’s that for?”

  “A smart girl like you should be able to figure it out.” Dunne leveled his rifle, then tossed the rope at her. “Make a loop over your wrists. I’ll do the rest.”

  “I’d rather be shot.”

  “Would you indeed?” The trapper thumb
ed back the hammer. “Riling me wouldn’t be smart. It’s been a hellacious long time since I’ve had a white gal, and I have a powerful hankering. Scrawny as you are, you’re still a female.” He paused. “But I’d much rather treat myself to a full-grown woman. This friend of yours, what’s her name?”

  Lies now came as smoothly as melted butter to Lou’s tongue. “Zelda. Short for Griselda.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “She’s about your height, with long blond hair and blue eyes and—”

  Bartholomew Dunne jerked as if slapped. “A blonde! That’s too good to be true. I’ve always had a fondness for yellow hair. The way it sparkles like gold! I love to run my fingers through it.”

  Lou remembered her mother lecturing her on men like Dunne. Men whose main interest in life was what went on behind locked doors with the curtains drawn. There were words for men like him, but Lou was too much the lady to even think them.

  “She’d better be as good-looking as you say,” Dunne said. “After getting my hopes up, I won’t take kindly to being made a fool of.” He hefted the rifle. “Now, make that loop. I want to take a gander at your friend.”

  Lou did as she was instructed. For now, she must obey. But she had better come up with a scheme to gain the upper hand, or when they caught up with the cutthroats Dunne was liable to punish her by doing things no man had ever done, and no one but Zach ever should. Three or four hours was all she had. Would it be enough?

  Ten

  Zachary King sorely wished he were on his dun. It was exceptionally surefooted, had tremendous stamina, and responded to the lightest touch on the reins. The animal he was now riding stumbled going down the incline, nearly pitching him off. Whether it possessed much stamina remained to be seen. As for responding to the reins, it was one of those horses that fought the bit and resented being controlled. He had to haul on the reins with all his might to get it to veer to the left so when they reached the bottom they would be near some pines.

  Any cover was preferable to none. Zach felt exposed on the incline, his shoulder blades prickling in anticipation of taking a slug in the back. Judging from the shouts and curses rising from the bench, Kendrick’s men were scrambling to their mounts and would soon be in frenzied pursuit.

  Zach glanced back to see how Frazier was faring. The trapper wore a wide grin, as if he were enjoying himself immensely. His mule kept up with the horse with no problem, moving as sure-footedly as the dun would.

  “Go, Bessy! Go!” the old-timer hollered.

  They were almost to a shelf that crowned the next slope when a roar of rage brought Zach’s head around. Vince Kendrick was at the rim and was raising his rifle.

  Kendrick didn’t command them to stop. He didn’t warn them that he was going to shoot. He simply wedged the stock to his shoulder, fixed a hasty bead, and fired.

  Zach was the intended target. He bent low as the rifle spewed smoke and heard the lead whiz above him.

  More greenhorns appeared. By then Zach was on the shelf and among the pines. Frazier was right behind him, cackling merrily. Being shot at amused him even more.

  It didn’t amuse Zach. Racing to the slope, he descended at a breakneck clip. The ground wasn’t quite as steep, and he could go faster but still not fast enough to suit him. Kendrick and three or four others were hurtling downward, well within rifle range.

  Dense forest offered the safest haven, but the nearest heavy growth was a mile away, to the southwest. On Gold Mountain itself vegetation was sparse. Unnaturally so, in Zach’s opinion, since all the other mountains in that region were covered with lush woods. Why Gold Mountain should be different was a mystery. Maybe there was something in the soil. Or maybe, as the Shoshones would say, Gold Mountain was bad medicine.

  The Shoshones believed there were bad places, evil places, places that should be shunned. They never went near certain lakes, valleys, and mountains because legend had it anyone who did died. When Zach was younger, he’d thought it silly of them. Until one day his pa told him every legend had a basis in fact, and he should heed the wisdom of the ancients.

  A friend of his pa’s named Scott Kendall had related a story that shed light on his pa’s outlook. It seemed that years ago Zach’s father and some others had boldly ventured into a valley believed by all the tribes, not just the Shoshones, to be a place best shunned.

  Zach’s pa would never talk about what happened there, except to say that Zach must never, ever visit the valley.

  Then along came Scott Kendall, who knew the particulars and had shared them with Zach. It was a harrowing tale of giant hairy creatures that devoured human flesh, of rank-smelling beasts who slaughtered red and white men alike with chilling abandon.

  One day Zach would like to go to that valley and see the creatures for himself.

  The blast of a rifle and the sizzle of hot lead shattered Zach’s remembrance. He scolded himself for letting his attention lapse, a mistake unworthy of a Shoshone warrior. Concentrating on riding to the best of his ability, he flew past scrub brush, the hooves of his mount spraying dirt and dust.

  Ben Frazier whooped with delight.

  All the whites were after them now, the Batson brothers straggling well behind the rest. Elden Johnson had caught up with Kendrick and kept trying to steady his rifle, but the bobbing and lurching of his mount hampered him. That didn’t stop Ira Sanders from firing, though. The shot went wild, and Ben Frazier cackled louder than ever.

  For over half a mile the chase continued, before tragedy struck.

  Zach could see the base of Gold Mountain. The edge of the forest was so close yet so far. Skirting a boulder, he lashed his horse. Higher up another rifle cracked. A high-pitched squeal rent the air, then a horrified outcry. There was a tremendous crash. Looking back, Zach was dismayed at the sight of the trapper’s mule sliding on its side amid a shower of dust and stones, with Frazier clinging in desperation to the saddle.

  Tugging on the reins, Zach brought his animal to a stiff-legged stop. He wheeled and hurried to his friend’s side. The mule was shaking and heaving, blood spouting from its nostrils and mouth. A ball had caught it high in the side—puncturing a lung, from the look of things. It wouldn’t last long.

  Frazier clung to its neck, wailing like a child, near hysterical in his grief. “No, Bessy! Please, God! No! No! No!”

  Zach bent and extended his bound wrists. “Quickly! Swing up behind me!”

  The trapper didn’t budge. Tears streaking his grizzled cheeks, Frazier stroked the mule and blubbered, “Don’t die, old girl! Please don’t die! I’ll fix you up and you’ll be back on your feet in no time! You’ll see!”

  What Zach saw were seven angry men bearing down on them. Smoke curled from the barrel of Elden Johnson’s rifle; he was the one who had brought Bessy low. “Hurry, Ben!” Zach urged. “Climb on before it’s too late!”

  Frazier waved him off. “Go! Light a shuck! I won’t abandon her, not while she’s still alive. Save yourself if you can.”

  “Please!” Zach pleaded, in vain.

  “Oh, my sweet, sweet Bessy,” the trapper said, crying unashamedly. “Without you I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Cold laughter from on high gave Zach an idea. “Do you hear that, Ben? They’re poking fun at you. They shot your mule just to catch us. They’ve won, because you won’t leave her and I won’t leave you.”

  Sniffling, Frazier glared at the greenhorns. “You sons of bitches! You’ve killed the kindest critter any man ever owned! She has a heart of gold, this old girl.”

  Bessy stopped quivering. Her tongue had protruded, and her eyes were as blank as shale. Zach bent lower to snatch at the trapper’s shirt. “She’s gone, Ben. You can’t avenge her if Kendrick catches us. I’m begging you. Climb up while we still have a chance to get away. Another minute and it will be too late.”

  Frazier lowered his lips to the mule’s neck and tenderly kissed her. “Good-bye, Bess. I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know. And I’ll make the varmints who d
id this pay.” Rising unsteadily, he wrapped his fingers around Zach’s arms, then nodded. “Pull me up.”

  Another shot boomed, courtesy of Cyrus Walton. The clerk aimed too low, and the slug meant for them thudded into Bessy instead.

  “I’ve never hated anyone in all my born days as much as I hate those butchers!” Frazier declared.

  Zach didn’t reply. He had to devote all his energy to reaching the forest. The horse balked at bearing an extra burden, but once Zach slapped his heels and flicked the reins, it broke into a gallop.

  Frazier was shaking a fist at their pursuers. “Filthy murderers! If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll see that you’re wiped out to the last man!”

  Zach wished the trapper would sit still. The lower slopes were split by gullies and ravines he must avoid, as well as treacherous talus. He spied a rattlesnake sunning itself and immediately slanted to the left so the horse wouldn’t see it.

  A rifle banged, then a second, and a third. Leaden hornets scorched the air on all sides. Zach twisted and saw that Kendrick and company had halted and jumped off their mounts. They were firing and reloading as swiftly as they could, volley after volley, in an all-out attempt to bring the horse down before it was out of range.

  Ben Frazier was cussing up a storm, heaping every vile word in the English vocabulary on Bessy’s slayers.

  Zach started to believe they would make it. Another hundred yards and they would be too far off for even the most skilled marksman in the world to hit. Suddenly, large boulders barred his path and he had to swing to the right to go around. For nerve-racking moments they were broadside to their enemies, the horse as inviting a target as anyone could ask for. Slugs peppered the boulders and stitched the soil, spewing miniature geysers.

  Frazier went on railing like a madman, his voice growing hoarse. Suddenly he fell silent and slumped to one side.

  “Ben?”

  The old man uttered a groan in Zach’s ear, clutched at his arm, and fell. Zach reached around, but his hand closed on empty air. Reining up, horror filled him. Frazier lay still, a scarlet stain on the front of his shirt.