Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  There had been another delay, the third in five days.

  First a mistake by one of the Ammuchabas was to blame. The war party had stopped at a meadow to rest the horses, and as was their routine, a warrior was given the task of watching over the two dozen animals acquired on their raid. The man sat with his back to a tree—and dozed off.

  No doubt he thought it was safe to relax. The horses were tied together in three strings of eight each. But that didn’t stop them from running off when one suddenly whinnied and bolted. Whether it had been spooked by a snake or caught the scent of a predator, Lisa never knew. All that really mattered was that its panic was contagious, and within seconds all the stolen horses were racing away.

  The warrior leaped to his feet, but the harm had been done. Immediately, the rest of the men jumped on their mounts and gave chase. Some had witnessed his lapse. Most, as they rode past, struck him with their quirts or lance butts. The man didn’t resist. Head bowed, he stood and took his punishment in stoic silence, even though by the time the last of his companions rode off, his face was covered with welts and cuts and blood.

  It took five hours to round up the horses. Some had broken off from their strings and gone their separate ways. Three were never found. When the war party came back, the tall leader gave the man whose neglect was to blame a severe tongue-lashing.

  The second delay was due to a rock slide. They were winding along a narrow ledge that would bring them to the top of an escarpment when they came to a section that had been washed away by a recent rock slide. They had no recourse except to retrace their steps. But with the ledge no wider than the length of their bows, they couldn’t turn the horses around. They had to dismount and walk the animals down backward. Some, naturally, balked. It took two hours, and then they lost another two finding a new way to the top.

  The third delay was that very morning, and Lisa herself was to blame.

  They had risen at first light and resumed their journey before the sun was halfway up. Since the previous afternoon dense forest had hemmed them in, giving the illusion they were adrift in a sea of pines. By sticking to a game trail they made good time. Deer and elk used it daily, which was a sure sign it would eventually bring them to water.

  Lisa rode with Vail Marie perched on the saddle in front of her, ducking low limbs and avoiding branches. Glancing back, she noticed that the warrior behind her had fallen a dozen yards to the rear. The man ahead was almost as far. They were lax because they didn’t think she would try anything, not with near-solid walls of vegetation on either side. But those green walls only appeared to be solid. There were gaps, openings, plenty of places a horse could slip into and be gone in the blink of an eye.

  Lisa wavered, though.

  Were she alone, she would try to escape in a heartbeat, but she had her daughter to think of. An arrow meant for her could strike Vail Marie. And even if none did, what if they were caught? Their punishment might be worse than that of the man who let the horses run off.

  Those horses.

  The evening before, Lisa had seen the tall leader and two others admiring an Ute mount, a magnificent chestnut with white splotches on its flank, and white socks. On their way back to the fire they had passed her, and the leader paused. He had indicated the stolen stock, pumped his arms and body as if he were riding, and beamed like a small boy given his heart’s desire for his birthday. Then he’d said the name of his people and some other words in their tongue.

  Lisa was puzzled what to make of it. Was he saying that riding a horse was one of his greatest delights? Or that all Ammuchabas were passionate horsemen, as devoted as the Comanches?

  Unbidden, another idea blossomed. Lisa had seen how the warriors handled themselves on horseback. They weren’t exceptional, by any means. Average, was how she’d rate them. Which seemed inconsistent if they were anything like the Comanches. Unless—and here she was stretching logic, but it explained a lot of things—unless they were new to the horse, unless they were just starting to collect valuable breeding stock, unless their excursion into Ute territory was the first they’d ever made.

  It wasn’t that far-fetched. Many tribes had acquired horses within recent memory, mainly thanks to the Spanish. And mainly those tribes that lived to the south, along the border with Mexico, who later traded some with those who dwelled on the plains. Indians deep in the interior weren’t as fortunate; many didn’t have horses to this day.

  It accounted for why she had never heard of their tribe. Granted, she wasn’t as knowledgeable about Indians as Nate King or Shakespeare McNair were. But she’d spent many hours in the company of those two gentlemen, regaled by their stories of life in the wild. At one time or another they’d talked about every tribe under the sun. Yet not once did either ever mention the Ammuchabas.

  When all was said and done, where they came from was of little consequence. Getting away from them was all that should concern her, and Lisa knew she would regret it for the rest of her life if she failed to seize an opportunity when it presented itself.

  Like now.

  Drooping her shoulders and head as if she were so tired she couldn’t sit straight, Lisa shifted just enough to see the man behind her out of the corner of an eye. He was fifteen yards back and acting as bored as a tavern owner at a Sunday sermon. The warrior in front was watching a pair of squawking ravens.

  Ahead, a bend in the trail materialized.

  Lisa bent down to whisper. “Vail Maire. This is important. Don’t say anything or look at me. Just hold on tight, tighter than you ever have. I’m going to try and escape.”

  Nodding, the child molded herself to the pommel.

  Lisa gripped the reins securely and scoured the vegetation on both sides. On the left was a thicket in the shadow of large pines. On the right the undergrowth wasn’t as heavy, which worked in her favor since she could ride faster. But she’d be easier to spot, too, and thus a lot easier to hit.

  Which way should she go?

  Lisa didn’t make up her mind until the very last second. Plodding around the bend, she verified that the warrior to the rear couldn’t see her, and that the one in front wasn’t watching.

  As if heaven-sent, an opening presented itself on the right. Without breaking stride, Lisa rode into it and smacked her heels against her mount to spur the animal on. She needed to put several trees between them and the trail before the warrior following her came to the bend.

  No outcries rent the forest. No shrieks of outrage. Lisa grinned and dared to think she would pull it off, that it would be minutes yet before they noticed she was missing. Flicking the reins, she cantered deeper into the woods. They covered another thirty feet.

  “You did it, Ma!” Vail Marie said quietly.

  Lisa was marveling at how easy it had been when a strident yell crushed her newborn joy. Bringing the horse to a trot, she sped for their lives.

  To the rear, the brush crackled to the passage of many riders. Shouting back and forth, the warriors were swiftly spreading out.

  Vail Marie tilted her head. “Don’t let them catch us, Ma. Please don’t let them catch us!”

  Lisa tried her best. She called up all the riding skill she possessed and galloped flat out, tucking at the waist to shield her daughter from rending limbs. To throw off their pursuers, she veered to the right and fifty yards later veered to the left. Not surprisingly, Lisa lost track of where she was in relation to the game trail. She thought she was heading north, but it could just as well be east or west. Her sense of direction was askew.

  “Ma! Look!”

  Lisa glanced in the direction her daughter was pointing. Angling toward them was a husky Ammuchaba, fury wreathing his head like a storm cloud. Cutting sharply away, Lisa was horrified to spot another coming from the other side.

  “There’s one more, Ma!”

  They had caught up so swiftly!

  Lisa choked down welling frustration and applied herself anew. So long as breath animated her, she mustn’t give up. Not for her sake alone, but fo
r the sake of the child whose life was more precious to her than the most exquisite diamond in the world.

  “Here come others!” Vail Marie wailed.

  Lisa heard them, plowing through the forest like living scythes. Oddly, they didn’t whoop and holler as Indians were wont to do. They were in deathly earnest, as grim as the grave.

  The woods were a blur, the vegetation a jumbled quilt-work of greens and browns. Everything flashed by Lisa in the blink of an eye. She had to react instantly as obstacles presented themselves. Logs. Boulders. Low limbs.

  It was one of the latter that did her in.

  For frantic minutes the chase lasted, Lisa holding her own but unable to shake the Ammuchabas. She had to keep track of where they were, hold on to Vail Marie, be on the lookout for perils in her path, and control her horse, all at the same time.

  Try as she might, Lisa couldn’t look in all directions at once. She had two eyes, not forty. And it was when she checked over a shoulder to gauge how close her captors were that the inevitable took place.

  “Ma!”

  Vail Marie’s scream whipped Lisa around. Directly ahead was a thick limb that hung so low, it would barely clear their mount’s head. Lisa bent lower, but she couldn’t bend far enough with Vail Marie there. Nor could she lean to the side, not when it would expose her daughter to potential harm.

  Deliberately, Lisa bore the brunt of the impact. She expected it to be severe but not the bone-jarring, gut-churning blow it was. Bodily torn from the saddle, overwhelmed by agony, she hung in the air for what seemed like a full minute but couldn’t have been more than a second. Then she smashed to earth and heard hoofs pound and her daughter scream.

  “Vail Marie!” Lisa cried, struggling to stand. Her traitor legs wouldn’t obey. She did manage to rise onto her knees, and she lifted her head just as the tall leader bore down on her like a centaur gone amok. She saw him spring from his horse before it stopped moving, saw him rear over her with his fist cocked.

  An inky veil descended.

  Scott Kendall held warm coals in his hand and almost kissed them. They proved he was hunkered before the campfire his wife’s abductors had made the night before. The war party was only several hours ahead.

  “I’m coming, dearest,” Scott declared as he anxiously climbed on the weary buckskin. “Another day, horse,” he told it. “Then you can take your sweet time going home, and rest up all you want.”

  The trail wound into dense forest. Giddy with joy now that the end of his quest was nigh, Scott goaded the flagging buckskin on at a pace that threatened to cause it to collapse. He reckoned it would be the middle of the afternoon before he came within sight of the war party, so he was stupefied when, well before noon, low voices warned him he was much closer than he figured.

  Now isn't the time for mistakes, Scott reflected. Reining up, he advanced on foot, avoiding fallen leaves and dry twigs, exercising the stealth of a painter. Movement steered him toward a clearing on the bank of a stream. He was so excited, blood hammered his temples and his chest was fit to burst. He could hardly wait to set eyes on his loved ones again. It took all his self-control to keep from calling out their names.

  Someone spoke, close by, in an unknown dialect. Scott promptly flattened and saw two pairs of moccasins off to the left, along with dozens of hoofs. Crawling to a thorny bush, he carefully parted it wide enough to see two dusky warriors standing guard over tethered horses. Beyond were more men, some drinking from the stream, some talking, one man applying a whetstone to a knife blade.

  Where were Lisa and Vail Marie?

  Scott’s breath caught in his throat as his worst fear surged rampant. Had they been killed? Was he too late? After all he had gone through, after all they had endured, to think that they were gone was almost too much to bear. Suddenly he stiffened.

  Across the clearing were his wife and daughter. Lisa had been tied to a tree and was slumped forward, her disheveled hair hiding her face. Vail Marie was also bound, but on the ground. His little girl was weeping.

  Simmering rage gripped Scott. He resisted its pull and dug his fingers into the soil as if to hold himself down. Then Lisa lifted her head and he saw dry blood and a discolored knot on her cheek and his rage became all-consuming. Of their own accord his legs pushed up off the ground and hurtled him into the clearing.

  It was hard to say who was more surprised, Scott or the warriors. One of the sentries spun and hiked a lance, but Scott cored the man’s brain with a lead ball. Drawing a pistol, he fixed a bead on the other warrior and was thumbing back the hammer when corded arms encircled him from behind.

  Like a griz gone berserk, Scott heaved his assailant off, pivoted, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet slammed into the warrior’s shoulder, not the heart as Scott intended. He shoved the spent flintlock under his belt and reached for the other, but as he unlimbered it, feet pounded and someone hissed like a serpent.

  Three more were almost on top of him. Scott brought the pistol up, but the man he had just shot was as tough as rawhide and grabbed him around the shins. Kicking wildly, Scott fought to free himself and succeeded just as the trio reached him.

  A war club arced, smashing against the flintlock and sending it flying. Scott still had the rifle, which he gripped by the barrel while evading the war club’s next swing. He rammed the stock into the warrior’s midriff and, when the man doubled over, cracked him across the skull.

  Every last Indian was converging. Scott waded into them, blind to everything except his need to batter, to bash, to destroy those who had dared violate all he held dear. He clubbed those in front, he clubbed those on either side, he clubbed them as they tried to circle to get at him from the rear.

  The thud-thud-thud of the stock connecting with human flesh was punctuated by the whoops of the warriors. One notched a bow and trained an arrow on him, then lowered it at a bellow from the tallest among them. From then on, they did their best to close in so they could grapple him to the ground.

  They wanted him alive! That much sank in, that much pierced the red haze of bloodlust that had Scott in an unbreakable grip. He swung the rifle in a frenzy, again and again and again, never resting, never tiring, driven by an inner force he couldn’t resist.

  Across the clearing, Lisa Kendall saw her husband battling to reach her side. Her heart swelled with love such as she had never known, love so potent it brought a lump to her throat and blurred her vision with tears. Fully half the Ammuchabas were down, writhing and clutching themselves, while the rest swarmed like hornets around a bear, around her man, striving to bring him to bay.

  An inarticulate cry of dismay was torn from Lisa when the rifle was ripped from Scott’s grasp. She thought they had him now, that he would be overpowered and brought down, but Scott balled his big fists and drove into them anew, punching in fiery abandon.

  Lisa had never beheld him like this, never seen him caught up in the heat of combat, never suspected he was capable of such carnage. He was frightening, yet wonderfully magnificent. Because he was battling for her, for her and their daughter, and nothing short of death would stop him.

  Belatedly, Lisa spied a warrior with a war club slinking toward Scott from behind. “Look out!” she screeched, but he couldn’t hear her above the din. Surging against her bounds, Lisa pulled and pried in a futile bid to rush to his side.

  The warrior raised the club. Lisa screamed her husband’s name, but he didn’t look. He was slugging it out with four others at once when the club slammed into him.

  Pain was relative. Just when a person thought they’d experienced the worst torment there was, along came anguish that made all previous suffering pale into insignificance.

  The pain in Scott Kendall’s head reminded him of this basic truth when he drifted up through a clinging gray fog and was abruptly fully conscious. Agony pummeled him like falling boulders, and he grit his teeth in order not to be unmanly.

  Disoriented, Scott opened his eyes. He was on his side, his hands tied behind his back, another rope cl
osing off the circulation to his feet. Levering onto a shoulder, he raised his head for a look-see.

  “Pa! You’re alive!”

  Scott shifted on an elbow. Incredibly, his pain evaporated like dew under a blazing sun when he set eyes on the pair with whom his heart was entwined. He saw them, and only them. The tender love in Lisa’s eyes, the tears pouring from Vail Marie, they were a soothing balm for his tortured soul. He yearned to enfold Lisa in his arms and kiss her until his lips wore off, and to toss Vail Marie into the air and whoop for glee.

  “I knew you’d come!” his daughter said. “I’ve been telling Ma the whole time.”

  Scott’s gaze devoured his wife as a starving man devoured food. “I thought I’d never—” he began, and couldn’t finish.

  “Me, too,” Lisa said, putting more affection into those two words than many wives expressed in a lifetime.

  Such was the depth of their devotion that for a while neither spoke. They merely looked into each other’s eyes, communicating in a way that made speech unnecessary. They would have gone on doing so had not their offspring wriggled and sat up, asking, “What do we do now, Pa? How do we get out of this fix?”

  Scott tore himself from Lisa. The warriors were huddled beside a small fire. Although it was early yet, they appeared in no hurry to move on. On the contrary, half were busy trimming and sharpening limbs already chopped into two-foot lengths. Stakes, Scott realized, a chill coursing through him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “For what Pa?” Vail Marie asked.

  “Yes, why?” Lisa said.

  “I failed. I’ve let you both down when you needed me most.” Now that his berserker fury had faded, the full import of what Scott had done filled him with remorse. His blunder would cost his family their lives.

  Vail Marie’s cherub features were streaked with grime and her dress was a shambles, yet to Scott she’d never appeared more sweet and adorable than when she wriggled closer and said, “Don’t talk like that, Pa. You’ll get us out of here yet. Just break those ropes like Samson would.”