Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  “Ben!”

  Zach vaulted off, holding on to the reins to keep the horse from bolting. Up above, Kendrick’s men were reloading for another volley. Zach sprang to the trapper, whose eyes were closed, and grasped his hand. “Can you hear me, Ben? We have to get out of here!” But his companion lay as limp as a wet cloth. Zach hastily felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one.

  Spinning, Zach swore at the culprits as lustily as the trapper had done. Some laughed, and Cyrus Walton clapped Elden Johnson on the back as if congratulating him.

  “Damn you!” Zach cried in impotent fury, then swung onto the horse. Johnson was taking aim again. As Zach hurtled into motion, Johnson’s rifle spat death. But the ball whistled by and ricocheted off one of the boulders. Loping past them, Zach made for the trees with renewed fervor.

  Kendrick was thundering at his band to mount up and give chase. They weren’t about to give up, even if it delayed their search for the gold.

  Which suited Zach just fine.

  The mountain man came to the top of the bluff and lingered just long enough to read the sign. On a tether was the mare. Strapped to the empty saddle were two rifles, both Hawkens, guns he was as familiar with as he was his own.

  The bearded seeker had backtracked the mare’s flight into the woods, finding the long guns and her along the way. The horse had not run off, had, in fact, been glad to see him. And why shouldn’t she, when he had raised her from a foal?

  The tracks had shown him where a great bear stalked the girl, and he had deduced how close she came to having her flesh shredded to ribbons. He could well imagine the fright she must have felt, and his heart went out to her.

  He was becoming anxious for her safety, and his son’s. Being sidetracked had proven a costly delay. He mustn’t waste another minute. Until they were found, he wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. By switching from his bay to the mare when one tired, he could maintain a steady pace for hours on end.

  His green eyes hardened at the thought that harm might have befallen those he sought. If so, whoever was to blame would me the day they came into the world. He wasn’t a violent man by nature. But decades of wilderness life had imbued him with the ferocity of the beasts he shared the wilderness with. When he had to, he could kill, and could do so with skill that surpassed the ability of most.

  The big man hoped his worry was unwarranted. He prayed the boy and girl were well. At moments like this, he almost regretted the decision he had made long ago to stay in the mountains rather than return to civilization. Almost, but not quite. Sure, Nature was a cruel mistress. Sure, surviving in the Rockies was a formidable challenge. And sure, of the hundreds of hopefuls who had flocked to the mountains to reap their fortunes in the beaver trade, only a handful were still breathing. But the benefits far outweighed the risks.

  Where else could a man live as free as the birds? Where else could a person do as they pleased, when they pleased, without being beholden to anyone? Without having politicians hold sway over all aspects of his life? Without being hamstrung by confining laws that turned freedom into thinly disguised slavery?

  To the mountain man, the Rockies were literally heaven on earth. He had taken to them like a duck to water. To the thrill of being the master of his own destiny. To the excitement of living each day to the full instead of toiling day in and day out at a boring job.

  Life was meant for living. Humankind was meant to be free. Maybe the legions who dwelled in squalid hovels in cramped cities lorded over by the well-to-do were willing to accept their plight, but not him. He refused to go through life burdened by chains devised by those who had no right to impose their edicts on anyone.

  The cost of true freedom was constant vigilance. He had heard that somewhere, and it was true. But it seemed to him that most people no longer rated freedom worth the price. They were all too ready to have others run their lives. So long as they were well-fed and clothed and had a roof over their heads, they were content.

  Therein lay the greatest danger. Contentment bred laziness. People became so accustomed to being led on a leash and having their needs met by others that they forgot how to fend for themselves.

  The big man smiled grimly. That would never happen to him. He would go to his grave as proud and free as the bald eagle soaring high overhead.

  It was a source of no small pride to him that he had been able to bestow the same precious gift on his son. And he would destroy, without qualms, anyone and everyone who tried to deprive any member of his family of their birthright.

  Louisa May Clark was conscious of every passing second. Two hours had gone by. Two hours! And she had yet to think of a means to escape from Bartholomew Dunne. Her wrists were bound in front of her so she couldn’t work at them without Dunne noticing. He was leading her horse and the pack animal, both, and whistling cheerfully as he had been doing for quite some time. “Don’t your lips ever get tired?” she asked.

  “Is that your way of saying I’m grating on your nerves?” Dunne laughed. “Be nice, girly. It helps me pass the time. You can join in if you’re of a mind.”

  “I’d rather eat rocks.”

  Glancing at her, Dunne smirked. “Sassy little filly, aren’t you? Maybe I should tell you a story.”

  “It wouldn’t interest me.”

  “Some years back I met a trader who makes trips to Santa Fe now and then. He had heard about tins white gal who was taken by the Indians. The Apaches or some such. She had a lot of sand, that gal, but she was also the worst shrew who ever lived. She’d tongue-lash a parson for misquoting Scripture.”

  “She doesn’t sound at all like me,” Lou said.

  “I’m not done. You see, a warrior took this gal for his own. And all she did was gripe. Gripe, gripe, gripe. Nothing suited her. Not the food, not the clothes they made her wear. One day she complained that he was working her too hard, so he put an end to her shrewish ways once and for all.”

  “How?” Lou asked, despite herself.

  “He cut out her tongue.”

  “You made that up to scare me.”

  “That’s not all. He let it dry, tied it to a rawhide cord, and hung it around her neck. She had to wear it as a constant reminder of what wagging her tongue had cost.”

  “Are you fixing to cut out my tongue if I don’t shut up?”

  “The notion did occur to me.”

  “You like to hurt women, don’t you?”

  Dunne reined up so abruptly, Lou’s horse nearly walked into his mount. His hand dropped to his Green River knife. “Prod too hard and you won’t like the result. You need to learn to keep your rightful place, girly, and I’m just the one to teach you.”

  “My rightful place?” Lou quizzed him.

  “Haven’t you heard? In the greater scheme of things, women are inferior to men. Females aren’t as strong, aren’t as smart. So us men have the natural right to lord it over you women as we see fit.”

  “That’s the silliest idea I’ve ever heard.”

  “Believe me, this world would be much better off if women would just do as they’re told. Men are born leaders. We were created to run things. Government, businesses, the family, you name it.” Dunne swatted at a fly. “I learned it from my pa. He used to beat my ma whenever she got too uppity, but she doted on him hand and foot.”

  Louisa was astounded. She couldn’t believe how wrong she had been about him. Dunne was about as kindly as a wolverine.

  “Women were put on this earth to satisfy male needs. Your sole purpose in life is to make us happy. To do whatever we see fit, no questions asked.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “There are lots of men who feel the way I do, girly. Most are too weak-kneed to admit it, though. And I can’t blame them none. Back in the States it could get a fella into a lot of trouble.” Dunne encompassed the mountains with a grand motion. “It’s part of the reason I came west. Partly why I took up trapping as my trade.”

  Lou couldn’t say what made her utter her next comment. A hunch, maybe. Her m
a always said women were more sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of others. “You’re the one who got into trouble, aren’t you? What did you do? Hurt someone? Do you beat women like your pa did?”

  Bartholomew Dunne reined up again, and sighed. “That’s another thing. Women are always trying to get our goat. Your kind just aren’t happy unless they’re making us miserable.”

  “You’re avoiding the question,” Lou said, and the trapper stared at her so long and so menacingly that she braced for a slap or a punch.

  “Think you know it all? Yes, I got into a little scrape. I busted a woman’s jaw. She and I were to be hitched. Then the bitch up and changed her mind with only a couple of months to go until our wedding. So I beat on her a little.”

  “A little?”

  “Her folks filed a complaint against me. Wanted to charge me with murder. I cut out and haven’t been back since.”

  To look at him, Lou would never suspect he was a heartless brute. He seemed so ordinary. He didn’t foam at the mouth or gnaw on trees or do any of the other things rabid animals did, but he was just as mad as any wolf afflicted with the disease. And she was completely at his mercy.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “No special reason,” Lou fibbed, averting her face. In a huff, Dunne yanked on the lead ropes. She watched him out of the corner of an eye, biding her time as he sulked for a spell. Gradually, his moodiness faded and he relaxed. Wien he commenced to whistle again, she shifted and gripped the pommel.

  Lou wasn’t going to wait any longer. It wouldn’t make a difference when she tried to get away. One time was as good as another, so she might as well do it now. They were in heavy woodland, with plenty of cover. The key was to separate Dunne from his rifle, and his horse, long enough for her to reach it.

  Through a gap in the canopy a mountain appeared. Zach’s abductors were making straight for it. She was at a loss to explain why. The country was new to her. All she knew was that the Utes claimed it as their own, and woe to anyone who disputed them.

  “Bartholomew,” she said sweetly, “mind if I ask a question?”

  “Not when you ask like that. What is it?”

  “How well do you know this area?”

  “As well as any mountaineer, I expect. There were never many beaver to speak of, and water is scarce, so most fought shy of it. I only pass through now and then on my way to Bent’s Fort.”

  Lou had him snared, but he didn’t realize it. He had completely let down his guard. “Ever seen any Utes other than those you saw yesterday?”

  Dunne swiveled. “Hereabouts? No, but I’ve seen a lot of sign. Why?”

  “I was just wondering if they always mark trees like that one there,” Lou said, pointing ahead and to the left.

  “Trees?” The trapper gazed in the direction she indicated. “What are you dithering about? I don’t see any marks—”

  It was all the further he got. Lou slammed her heels against her mount the instant Dunne turned and Stalking Coyote’s horse shot forward like a bolt of lightning. She was next to Dunne in a twinkling, her foot rising and ramming into his ribs as he began to swing toward her. Lou threw all her weight and power into the kick in an effort to unseat him, but she wasn’t entirely successful.

  Bartholomew squawked as he toppled. Flailing wildly, he would have fallen if his right foot hadn’t snagged in the stirrup. As it was, he hung half on, half off, unable to right himself—and unable to use his rifle.

  Lou sped into the trees, gaining speed rapidly. The dun was a marvel, the best horse she’d ever handled. She threaded among the trunks with a precision she never believed she was capable of, and she owed most of it to the horse. The trapper’s curses blistered her ears, making her giggle. She had shown him!

  Or had she? Lou covered forty more feet and was giving a broad pine a wide berth when the sharp retort of the trapper’s Kentucky warned her he was back in the saddle. The ball struck the pine with a loud thump. In seconds she was beyond it and temporarily out of Dunne’s sight.

  As Lou rode, she gnawed at the rope on her wrists. It was thick and grimy and tasted awful, but she severed strand after strand and had chewed a quarter of the way through when a low limb forced her to stop and dip over the dun’s side to avoid being tom off its back. Simultaneously, a rifle boomed, and the slug that would have cored her skull buzzed harmlessly above her.

  Wrath rode Bartholomew Dunne’s brow, even as he rode his horse, guiding it by his legs alone, and began to reload.

  To the right was a thicket. Ordinarily, Lou wouldn’t think of entering one on horseback. The small limbs and sharp points inflicted considerable pain. But extreme situations called for extreme measures. She reined the dun on in, wincing at a pang in her ankle.

  The trapper scorched the heavens with a new litany of foul oaths. Lowering his ramrod, he slowed, then angled to the west to go around.

  Lou quickly reined to the east. Barbs tore at the dun’s chest and legs, but the dependable animal never broke stride. It nickered when a limb gashed it low on the shoulder, and again when its cheek was lanced. The racket they made was enough to bring the entire Ute nation on the run, and Lou could only hope that Bartholomew Dunne didn’t realize she had changed direction.

  The end of the thicket materialized.

  Lou smiled and patted the dun as they broke into the open. Already she was thinking of how she would circle in a wide loop and take up the trail of the men who had abducted Stalking Coyote. Belatedly, it hit her that she would be better off searching for sign of her own abductor. Just then she swept past a wide trunk, and the stock of a rifle blossomed before her eyes. Lou brought up her arms to protect herself, but the blow still lifted her clear off her mount and toppled her head over heels into high weeds.

  Dazed, her mind reeling, Lou struggled to rise. A moment later a blurry shape towered over her and she was brutally knocked onto her back.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, girly. You really shouldn’t. Now I reckon that blonde will have to wait. I’m about to make a woman of you.”

  Eleven

  Killing and slaughter had been part and parcel of Zachary King’s life since he was old enough to remember. One of his earliest memories was of standing beside the bodies of four Utes his father had slain. This was before the truce, before the tribe granted permission for the Kings to live in Ute country, back in the days when the tribe was doing all it could to drive his father out. Zach vividly recalled the pulsing blood, the pungent scent of it, the slick feel of it on his palm when he touched one of the warriors before his mother could stop him.

  For the Shoshones, warfare was woven into the fabric of their lives. The men lived to count coup, to gain honor in battle. Zach could recollect sitting in a lodge on his father’s lap, many a night, listening to prominent warriors talk about the great fights they had taken part in. He’d heard them describe in gory detail how they slew enemies. And, in his childish way, he had feasted on the slaughter like a young wolverine.

  Zach, himself, had killed before. Not a lot of times. Not as often as he would have liked. But enough that he could do so when it was necessary with no hesitation whatsoever, and no regrets afterward. His life had taught him that to kill others was normal, something that simply had to be done now and then. Remorse was an alien concept. Why be upset over killing someone who had been trying to kill him?

  Zach had been at a rendezvous some years back when a minister showed up, a godly man bound for the Oregon Country with his wife. The pair told Zach’s mother that the Lord had anointed them to convert heathens to the one true God. Zach had been intrigued by the man’s talk of love and brotherhood until the subject of the Ten Commandments came up. When he heard the minister read from the Bible, “Thou shalt not kill,” Zach had lost all interest and wandered off. Any religion so silly was not worth his time.

  Had Zach done as the Bible commanded, he’d have died long ago. The Blackfeet, the Bloods, the Comanches and Apaches, they had never heard of “turnin
g the other cheek” or “doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.” They would laugh at such notions. To them, as to the Shoshones, an enemy was someone who must be slain. It was kill or be killed. Or, more appropriately, kill first or be killed.

  Now, as Zach raced toward the forest with seven gold-crazed whites in grim pursuit, all he thought about was killing them. Killing each and every one, in horrible and bloody ways. They were enemies, and enemies must be destroyed.

  For slaying his friend they had earned Zach’s undying hatred. Ben Frazier had been one of the few decent whites Zach knew, one of the few who didn’t despise him for being a half-breed. Frazier had never looked down his nose at Zach, as so, many whites did. Ben Frazier accepted Zach as just another person, and for that he would always be grateful.

  Suddenly a rifle cracked. Invisible fingers plucked at the whangs on Zach’s right arm, but he was spared from harm. He looked back. It had been Elden Johnson again, the best shot in the brigade, the most dangerous, the man Zach was most eager to slay.

  Pines were only twenty yards off. Smiling at having thwarted his adversaries, Zach angled toward a gap in the tree line. The next moment two more rifles blasted. He felt the horse shudder to the impact of at least one of the balls, giving him an instant in which to tense his leg muscles before the animal suddenly pitched headlong to the earth.

  Zach leaped clear in the nick of time. He rolled when he landed and rose in a crouch, the squeal of his mount ringing in his ears. The animal thrashed and kicked, gushing scarlet spray, beyond all hope. Some of the whites laughed and hollered. They believed they had Zach now, that he was as good as caught, as good as dead. He would prove them wrong.

  Dashing for the vegetation, Zach reached it as several more rifles boomed. Johnson must have been one of them, because a ball nearly scorched Zach’s ear. He flung himself under a pine, flipped to the right, and ran deeper into the undergrowth before the greenhorns could take another bead.