Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  Bartholomew Dunne’s body plopped beside Lou. She started to rise but was too weak. An arm as stout as a redwood lifted her, and she collapsed against her rescuer’s broad chest. The tears she had resisted now flowed freely. Once unleashed, she cried and cried and cried. At length, wiping her face with her sleeve, she straightened and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  “What else is family for?”

  The tears poured anew. Nate King tenderly guided Lou from the grisly scene, saying, “Let’s go find my son.”

  Twelve

  The Ute war party numbered over fifteen strong. The warriors had painted faces and had painted their war-horses, and every man bristled with weapons. They had bows, lances, war clubs, and knives, but no guns. Rifles and pistols were hard for Indians to come by. In the old days friendly tribes could trade beaver plews for them, but now that the beaver trade was dying out, the Indians had little to offer that white traders rated worth the value of a firearm. As for hostile tribes, the only way they could get their hands on guns was to strip them from the cold fingers of dead gun owners.

  This war party had bided its time, stalking the greenhorns until ready to engage their enemy. Why they had picked this particular moment was a question only they could answer.

  Zachary King was caught in the middle, pinned between two opposing forces, either of whom would gladly rub him out. The Utes hadn’t spotted him yet. Kendrick’s outfit were unaware the war party was stalking them; the whites were too intent on their search for him.

  Crouched behind a tree trunk, Zachary glanced from one group to the other and back again. To try and break through the Ute line would result in certain death. There were too many, and they were too alert. He might be able to slip away and sneak around ahead of the whites, but that would take time, time he didn’t have. The Utes were bound to attack soon.

  Zach must do something. To just wait there invited discovery. He scanned the brush, the grass, the trees, seeking a place to hide.

  The snap of a branch brought Zach’s head around. One of the whites was coming back! It was Elden Johnson. Maybe the marksman had remembered whatever he saw near the hole and was returning to investigate. Or maybe Kendrick had sent him to make another sweep of the immediate area. Whatever the case, it changed everything.

  Flattening, his makeshift lance at his side, Zach waited for the thunderclap that would trigger a storm of violence. He saw Johnson glued to the ground, checking for sign. He saw the Utes spot Johnson, and stop. A second later Elden Johnson lifted his head and set eyes on them.

  The tableau froze. Neither the Utes nor Johnson moved. They took the measure of one another, and to Johnson’s credit, he displayed no fear.

  Then a young warrior on the left raised a bow with an arrow already notched to the sinew string. Elden Johnson, whipping up his rifle, put a ball through the man’s forehead. As one, the rest of the warriors vented war cries and charged.

  “The Utes! The Utes are on us!” Johnson shouted, wheeling his mount and speeding toward his companions.

  Zach hugged the ground. The line of Utes thundered down on him, and suddenly they were on both sides, some so close he could have jabbed his lance into their mounts. He thought for sure that one of them would see him, but none did. They were staring straight ahead, at their quarry.

  Zach didn’t delay. As soon as the Utes swept past him, he was on his feet and running. He had to get as far from there as he could, and fast. But he had gone less than a dozen steps when he saw more warriors, a second line with almost as many warriors as the first. Diving under a small pine, he eluded detection. Temporarily, at least.

  The second line, Zach realized, was to prevent any whites from fleeing to the west. And in that case, there must be even more Utes to the north, south, and east. The war party had laid a clever trap.

  Only, now Zach was caught in it, too!

  Deeper in the forest bedlam broke out. Rifles blasted in a ragged volley. Curses and war whoops mixed with the whinnies of horses and the crash of undergrowth to attest to the fury of the clash.

  Zach could imagine it in his mind’s eye.

  The initial volley would break the Ute charge and the warriors would veer off to regroup. Kendrick’s men would bunch up for mutual protection, frantically reloading and debating what to do. They would decide to flee to the east and encounter another line of warriors.

  A smattering of shots hinted Zach was right.

  Next the whites would wheel to the south or north and fly for their lives. Again they would be blocked by waiting warriors. Now they realized they were in a trap. Now they knew they were completely surrounded. They would stop and reload again, and one of them, probably Elden Johnson, would say that the only way they were going to get out of there alive was to mount a charge of their own and break through the ring of Utes. Exactly where they would try, Zach couldn’t guess.

  “Give ’em hell, boys!” Vince Kendrick roared.

  Guns banged, rifles first and then pistols. Once more the crackle of bushes and weeds betokened the rush of horses. A man screamed. A strident nicker pealed.

  Zach saw the greenhorns galloping toward him in a knot, firing just as rapidly as they could reload. Kendrick was in the lead, and he had a bloody gash on his temple. Billy Batson was worse off, with an arrow jutting from a shoulder. Of his brother, Frank, there was no sign, although Frank’s horse was with the rest, running on its own.

  A burly Ute popped out of thin air, a lance upraised to throw. Elden Johnson instantly sent a pistol ball into the warrior’s chest.

  A glittering arrow streaked true, embedding itself in Cyrus Walton’s thigh. The former clerk screeched and grabbed it, which only made his agony worse. He started to fall behind the others but quickly caught up.

  Zach decided to stay right where he was. The whites would sweep past him and the Utes would follow them, leaving him all alone and safe. But it was not meant to be. For just then one of the warriors in the second line pointed at the small pine, hiked a war club, and barreled toward him.

  What happened next happened so fast, Zach had no time to think. He merely acted and reacted, relying on his reflexes and the oldest of human instincts: self-preservation.

  As the young warrior flew forward, Zach sprang to his feet and flung back his right arm. His lance cleaved the air a fraction of a second before the Ute’s. The two weapons were twin streaks. The warrior missed Zach’s head by the span of his hand. Zach’s lance, though, struck the young Ute in the chest, tumbling him in a heap.

  Other warriors moved to finish what their fallen friend had started.

  It was at that juncture the greenhorns galloped past, and with them the riderless horse belonging to Frank Batson.

  The empty saddle was Zach’s only hope. Flinging himself at it, he leaped. A slender shaft shot in front of his eyes, another whistled overhead. For a harrowing second he thought he had misjudged and would miss, but his hands found purchase on the pommel and he clung on for dear life.

  The Utes were converging to stop the whites. But Kendrick’s men were not to be denied. Yet another volley blistered the warriors, a hail of lead dropping four or five in the center. Into the gap poured the greenhorns, and on out of the forest.

  A horde of incensed avengers streamed from all four points of the compass. The cry had gone out! The white men were escaping!

  Zach was bouncing and swaying uncontrollably, his shoulders under tremendous strain. He sought to clamber up but couldn’t hook his leg high enough. Worse, his fingers were losing their grip. To fall would seal his doom. The Utes would be on him before he could stand. He thought of Lou, of how much he looked forward to being her husband, to having her snuggle beside him night after night for the rest of his life, and an extra surge of vitality filled him. With a powerful upward heave, he forked his foot over the horse’s back and pulled himself on.

  The whites were heading for Gold Mountain. A blunder on their part, Zach figured, since the slopes were so open, so devoid o
f good cover. But on second thought, he realized it could work in their favor. The Utes wouldn’t be able to approach unseen. A small force could hold off a large one indefinitely—or as long as their food, water, and ammo lasted.

  Only Cyrus Walton had noticed the addition to their band, and he made no attempt to harm Zach. The arrow in his thigh preoccupied him.

  Firing at random as more and more Utes emerged from the trees, the greenhorns held the war party at bay. Zach noticed, though, that the warriors didn’t make a determined effort to overtake them. The Utes seemed content to simply follow, just out of rifle range, their numbers swelling until there were over fifty.

  So that was why the war party had put off the attack for so long, Zach reflected. They had been waiting for more to arrive.

  Vince Kendrick didn’t slow until his men were on the lowest slope of Gold Mountain. By then their mounts were lathered with sweat. Kendrick drew rein and shook a fist at the Utes, who were holding to a walk. “Damned savages! Come and get us, if you dare!”

  No one appreciated the false bravado, least of all Billy Batson and Cyrus Walton, both of whom were hurting. Billy was the worst, so woozy from loss of blood he could barely stay in the saddle.

  Ira Sanders, mopping his brow, chanced to look at Zach. “The rotten ’breed! What’s he doing here!” The scarecrow started to bring up his rifle.

  A swat of Elden Johnson’s Kentucky foiled Sanders. “No,” he said sternly. “Don’t kill him.”

  “Why the hell not?” Sanders demanded.

  Kendrick was just as perplexed. “What’s gotten into you? We were going to kill him anyway, remember? Why not finish him now?”

  Zach disliked how they talked about him as if he weren’t even there—or beneath their contempt.

  Johnson busied himself reloading. “The ’breed’s in the same boat we are. The Utes are as much his enemies as they are ours. So he’ll help us fight. And since we’re outnumbered ten to one, we can use all the help we can get.”

  Kendrick, Sanders, and Ed Stark weren’t pleased, but they didn’t argue. “I’d sooner trust a griz than a half-breed,” Ed Stark said.

  “Give him one of Billy’s pistols,” Johnson said. “You’re closest.”

  “Like hell I will!” Stark responded. “He’s liable to turn it on me and blow my brains out.”

  “And I’m telling you he won’t,” Johnson said.

  “No, I won’t,” Zach spoke on his own behalf. It rankled him to have Ben Frazier’s killer as an ally, but there it was. “Those Utes want my hair just as much as they want yours. Like your friend just said, I’m stuck helping you whether I want to or not.”

  Ed Stark was still suspicious. “I don’t know—”

  “Do it,” Vince Kendrick said, ending the debate. Billy Batson never objected as Stark stripped him of a pistol, his ammo pouch, and his powder horn. The young farmer was barely conscious, the front of his shirt drenched bright scarlet.

  “What are those devils waiting for?” Ira Sanders asked. “Why don’t they do something?”

  The Utes had halted well out on the flatland. Wounded were being tended, water skins passed around.

  “They’re in no hurry,” Zach said. “They’ll finish us off whenever they want. But without losing many of their own, if they can.”

  Elden Johnson nodded. “The boy’s right. Indians never throw their lives away if they can help it.” Cyrus Walton was groaning and gritting his teeth. “I say we light a shuck while the getting is good. We’ll ride north until we’ve lost them, then swing east and not stop until we reach the Mississippi.”

  Vince Kendrick nipped that idea in the bud. “We wouldn’t get two miles, the shape our horses are in. No, we’ll hole up until dark to give the critters some rest, then try and slip away.”

  “Not me,” Walton said, reining his mount around. “Don’t anyone try to stop me, either,” he warned. A flick of his reins sent his horse into a trot.

  “The fool,” Elden Johnson said.

  The Utes sat and watched the pudgy man leave. Not until he was several hundred yards distant did ten warriors detach themselves from the main group and trail him at a leisurely pace.

  Ira Sanders motioned. “He’ll never get away. Maybe we should go after him. Fetch him back even if he refuses.”

  “Forget about Cy,” Kendrick barked. “He made his bed, now he can lie in it. We have ourselves to think of. Come on.”

  Sanders was the only one who hesitated when the others hurried on up the mountain. Zach also hung back, but only to verify the pistol was loaded. As he wedged it under his belt, Ira Sanders regarded him intently.

  “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

  No answer was called for. The scarecrow spurred his horse, and Zach fell into step in his wake. Their deaths were a foregone conclusion. All they could do was die with dignity. Zach would go down fighting, as a Shoshone warrior should, taking as many of his enemies with him as he could.

  Dying didn’t worry Zach nearly as much as Louisa did. She was out there, somewhere. Maybe close by. He shuddered to think of her fate should the Utes get their hands on her. Hopefully, she’d gone to get help, to bring his pa. His father would track the greenhorns clear to Gold Mountain and find his body. So there was some consolation in knowing his parents wouldn’t spend the rest of their lives wondering about his fate. As for Lou, Zach hoped his folks would take her in and treat her as one of their own.

  Vince Kendrick halted again when his tattered brigade reached the shelf partway up the mountain. Open slopes above and below made it an ideal spot for them to make their stand. After tying their mounts to the few pines, the whites moved to the rim. Except for Billy, who collapsed against a boulder.

  “What the hell are those Injuns up to now?” Ed Stark asked.

  Two groups of half a dozen warriors each were going in opposite directions, one around the base of the mountain to the north, the other to the south.

  “They’re going to circle around,” Elden Johnson said. “Close the back door so we can’t sneak away.”

  “Now look,” Stark declared.

  A council was being held. While several warriors stood guard over the warhorses and others rested, half a dozen leaders had formed a circle and were seated cross-legged.

  Zach had a hunch why. Few whites were aware of how highly independent Indians were. Most were loath to bow to any authority. Tribal leaders, while highly respected, did not have the right to boss members of the tribe around. Their word wasn’t law, as the whites might say. Any warrior was free to do as he chose when a leader’s wishes conflicted with his own. The circle below hinted at a difference of opinion the Utes must smooth over before the war party committed itself to a course of action. It would buy the whites a few extra hours of life.

  Zach, too. Hunkering, he rested his elbows on his knees and gazed at the mantle of snow covering far off Longs Peak. To the north of it was the family’s cabin. He prayed Louisa reached them safely.

  “Where’d those buzzards come from?” Ira Sanders wanted to know.

  Four of the ungainly birds were wheeling above boulders lower down. The scarecrow had forgotten about Ben Frazier and Bessy.

  Vince Kendrick announced, “When it’s dark enough, we’ll make a break for it. They can’t be everywhere at once. Some of us are bound to get through. We’ll meet up again at Bent’s Fort.”

  “We do have a chance,” Ed Stark said, trying to convince himself more than the others. “There’s only thirty or so of those scum down there now. Once we slip past them, they’ll never catch us.”

  Elden Johnson walked over to Zach. “What about you, boy? Do you reckon we can make it out alive?”

  “It can be done.”

  “How would you go about it?”

  Zach had been giving escape some thought. “I would spook the horses. While the Utes chased them, I’d head for the trees.”

  Ed Stark snorted in disgust. “Stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. Only an idiot would try to get away on
foot. They’d run you down and use you to bloody their lances.”

  “It might work,” Johnson disagreed, “if we timed it right, and if they didn’t catch on that no one was on the horses.”

  “You can go along with his loco stunt if you want, but not me,” Ed Stark said. “I’m not letting my horse out of my sight.”

  Zach rose. “It doesn’t matter what you think. We’ll never get to try. The Utes will attack before the sun goes down, so they don’t lose the light. They’ll come from below and above and maybe both sides, all at once.”

  Ira Sanders’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Sweet Jesus! We’ll be massacred!”

  “We’ve already lost one more,” Elden Johnson said, pointing.

  Billy Batson, the young man from Ohio who had hankered to buy his pa a new plow more than anything else in the world, would never buy anyone anything ever again. He had slumped on his side, his blank expression as empty as his pockets of the gold he had thought would be the answer to all his prayers.

  No one tried to stop Zach when he helped himself to Billy’s other flintlock. There was no rifle; Batson had lost it down in the trees.

  The whites were quiet now, each lost in thought. Stark and Sanders were bundles of raw nerves. Neither could stand still for more than a few seconds. They paced like caged cougars, Stark gnawing on his nails.

  Kendrick never took his eyes off the Utes except to scour the slopes above. Fueled by his hatred, he was more angry than fearful.

  Only Elden Johnson did not show any emotion. As composed as ever, he stood aloof from the others. No one disturbed him until Zach made bold to go over. Something needed to be aired.

  “If not for the Utes, I’d kill you myself.”

  “You would try, boy.”

  “You shot my friend.”

  “I almost shot you, too. Vince wanted both of you dead.”

  “And you always do what Kendrick says, is that it?”