Wilderness Double Edition 14

by David Robbins

  Scott closed his eyes and groaned.

  “Is Pa sick, Ma?” Vail Marie asked. “Or is he hurting from all those bruises?”

  A shadow fell across them, and Lisa glanced up. The leader of the war party was glaring at her husband. She mustered a wan smile, but it was wasted. Since her escape attempt, the man treated her with scorn.

  Fingers closed on Scott’s shoulder and he was roughly thrown onto his back. He stared up into the quartz eyes of a warrior almost as big as Nate. “What’s your problem, hos? Come to stomp on a gent when he’s down?”

  The leader squatted. Leering, he nodded at the stakes being whittled, then at the center of the clearing.

  Other warriors were bringing dead wood and piling it. To what end was a mystery, but Scott guessed it had something to do with him, and that he wouldn’t like what it was. “Do you speak Shoshone?” he asked in that tongue. “Or Crow?” He’d mastered enough of both to trade or parley when he met roving bands.

  The leader reached for Scott’s possibles bag. He jerked away, but he couldn’t prevent it from being stripped off and upended, the contents spilling out.

  Vail Marie pumped her legs at the warrior but couldn’t quite reach him. “Stop that! You give my pa’s things back!”

  “Hush!” Lisa snapped, not meaning to. She was intensely afraid the Ammuchaba would backhand Vail Marie, or do something worse, which would incite Scott and result in both of them being hurt. “Don’t antagonize them. We need to keep our wits about us.”

  Scott had been about to kick the man himself. Sagging, he gnashed his teeth in baffled wrath as the warrior sorted through his belongings. The pemmican merited a sniff. His small folding knife elicited a grin when the man figured out how to open it. But the objects that garnered the most interest were his fire steel and flint. “Just help yourself, why don’t you?”

  The warrior ran a hand over the fire steel, then the flint. Their purpose was not hard to divine, and he struck them together. At the sparks it produced, he smiled and stood, crowing about his sensational find.

  “I’m glad someone is happy,” Scott quipped, and Vail Marie giggled. She was so naive, so innocent, he shuddered to think of her fate if he couldn’t pull a miracle out of thin air.

  “Are you alone?” Lisa gave voice to the question that had plagued her for days. “Please tell me you’re not. Please tell me others are with you, and are out there waiting for the right moment to move in.”

  By Scott’s best estimate, Nate and the Utes were half a day away. No help would come from that quarter, and Scott had not seen any sign of other Utes, either. “We’re on our own,” he said. “Come what may.”

  “Ma?” Vail Marie said. “Why do you look so awful sad? Don’t cry. Pa will teach these men to let us be. Wait and see if he doesn’t.”

  The pile in the center of the clearing was already waist high and growing. One of the warriors toted an armful of stakes over next to it.

  Lisa refused to think of the possible use they would be put to. Smiling warmly at Scott, she said softly, “Do you remember when we first met? I dropped my hymnal and you picked it up for me?”

  “You were the prettiest girl in the choir” Scott would never forget that day as long as he lived—which might not be much longer. “I’d always been fond of you, but I was too scared to tell you.”

  Vail Marie tittered. “You, scared? Oh, Pa, you’re like Samson. You’re never afraid of anything.”

  Scott didn’t set her straight. Why bother, when in a short while she would learn the truth. Once the torture commenced. To his wife, he said, “The proudest day of my life was when you took me for your husband. To this day, I can’t believe that a wonderful woman like you cares for a guy like me.”

  “Scott Kendall, you’re the kindest, most decent man I’ve ever met. I’m the one who is honored. And I want you to know that I don’t regret a minute of our life together. Not a single, solitary minute. If I had it to do all over again, I’d still gladly be your wife.”

  Vail Marie was squirming. “Anytime you want to break those ropes is fine by me, Pa. I’m tired of being tied up.”

  The tall leader barked commands. Four strapping warriors hustled to Scott and seized his arms and legs. He resisted, but he was powerless against their combined might. Vail Marie screamed and flung herself at them, but the toe of a moccasin flipped her aside as if she were a kitten.

  Lisa didn’t rail at their captors, or cry. She was beyond that point. Emotionally, she felt drained, numb. She saw them bear her husband to the middle of the clearing, saw the leader pick up a stake and raise it as if to plunge it into Scott’s chest. Her beloved was about to perish and there was nothing she could do.

  Twelve

  Nate King had never ridden a horse into the ground. He didn’t treat his mounts as if they were disposable, like some men were inclined to do. He never abused a horse, or beat one, or let one come to harm if he could help it.

  There were times, however, when necessity forced Nate to push an animal much harder than he ordinarily would. Times when lives were at stake. When swiftness was paramount no matter what the cost.

  This was one of those times. Nate rode the bay to the brink of collapse in his zeal to overtake his friend. He felt sorry for the animal, but he dared not slacken his pace. He held the lives of three people in the palms of his hands, and he refused to fail.

  Swift Elk and the Utes never complained. They kept up, driving their war horses as mercilessly as he did the bay. Their thirst for vengeance would not be denied.

  Exhausting mile followed exhausting mile. Grueling day followed grueling day. The toll on men and mounts was formidable. Humans and horses alike had to reach deep down within themselves for extra stamina. They had to tap into the reserves of the life force that animated them.

  But strive as Nate would, he couldn’t catch Scott Kendall. A few hours always separated them. A few measly hours, yet it might as well be an eternity.

  By the tracks, it was evident the buckskin wouldn’t last much longer. The day before, Scott had halted briefly, and the poor buckskin hadn’t moved once. It had stood in the spot where it stopped, ignoring green grass all around, and a nearby spring. Added evidence the animal was at the end of its rope.

  Nate envisioned the buckskin caked with sweat, head hung low, tongue lolling and sides heaving. It had always been a reliable packhorse and he’d rather not lose it, but by the time he caught up with Kendall it might be beyond salvaging.

  Yet another day dawned, warm and sunny. Nate stiffly clambered into the saddle, yawned, and headed out. The temperature climbed rapidly. Soon he was uncomfortably hot. As he skirted a hogback, Swift Elk appeared at his elbow and signed to him.

  “In two sleeps, Grizzly Killer,” was the English equivalent, “our enemies will reach Com Creek. Once past it they are out of our territory and in their own.”

  “Will you chase them that far?”

  “I would gladly do so,” the handsome warrior replied, “but my father said I am not to do so unless he is with me.

  Which was wise of Two Owls, Nate mused. Younger warriors tended to think they were invincible, to commit acts seasoned warriors would never contemplate. Just a year before, he’d heard about a bunch of young Blackfeet who tried to steal horses from the Sioux. Rather than lie in hiding and wait for the herd to be driven out to graze, they’d brazenly snuck into the heart of the village in the dead of night and been slaughtered to a man when a barking dog gave them away.

  Youthful zest was intoxicating and treacherous. That tingly, vibrant feeling of being alive lent to the belief that such would always be the case. Death was something that happened to others. But the young died as frequently as the old, the only difference being that the old tended to wither away like a fading plant, while the young burned themselves out in a blaze of misspent glory.

  Nate often fretted that such would be the case with Zach. Stalking Coyote was as hotheaded as they came, and took risks Nate never did. But then, Nate had been rea
red in New York City, where the greatest daily danger he’d faced was crossing streets jammed with speeding carriages.

  Swift Elk coughed, and Nate realized the young Ute had signed to him and he had missed it. “Yes?”

  “What will you do if they cross the Com, Grizzly Killer?”

  “I will go on. I will hunt them to the Great Water if need be.”

  “Then we will ride with you. My father will understand.”

  Unending acres of woodland unfolded before them, lush virgin forest like that which once existed east of the Mississippi. Were the situation different, Nate would take time to drink in the natural splendor. Now he had eyes only for the tracks he dogged, which brought him to a game trail that meandered into the depths of the woods.

  Nate didn’t like having vegetation press in so close. It was ideal for an ambush. Yet he did not slow down. Butterflies flitted by like gaily-hued fairies. Bees buzzed from flower to flower, chipmunks chittered and birds chirped. It was a wonderland, the wilderness at its best. The creatures were proof that no one lay in wait, that the rhythms of nature had not been disturbed.

  Then, miles into the forest, the wild things vanished, the chirping died, the sounds of all life faded as if blinked out of existence.

  Nate drew rein, his senses primed. Either a silvertip was abroad or something had driven the animals into hiding. Based on the tracks, he wasn’t more than a few hours behind Scott. Twice that behind the war party. So they weren’t to blame unless one or the other had unaccountably stopped.

  A while before, Nate saw where a shod horse had left the trail and was hotly pursued. Lisa had made a bid for her freedom, he gathered, but been recaptured.

  At a walk, Nate continued on. He feared Scott’s butchered body might lie around every turn, just as he had feared finding it each and every day. But there were only tracks, tracks he knew as well as his own by now.

  “Grizzly Killer!” The whisper, in Ute, brought Nate to another stop. He rotated in the saddle.

  “I hear voices,” Swift Elk signed.

  Rising in the stirrups, Nate turned his head from side to side. Other than the sluggish breeze rustling leaves he heard nothing, and he was about convinced the young Ute was mistaken when he heard them, too. Faint, but unmistakable.

  Without being told, the Utes dismounted and girded for combat. Nate checked the Hawken and both pistols, adjusted his powder horn so he could grab it quickly, then loosened his knife in its sheath.

  They were as ready as they would ever be. Nate assumed the lead, gliding on cat’s feet, as quiet as a stalking bobcat. The voices grew in volume, the tongue completely unknown to him. Off through the trees a group of men were gathered in the center of a large clearing. Nate saw horses, some on the near side, some at a stream. He could not quite make out what the warriors were up to. They were gesturing and laughing as if at a joke.

  A hand fell on Nate’s arm. Swift Elk extended a finger to the left, and Nate saw Lisa Kendall, tied to a tree. Little Vail Marie was at her feet, trussed up like a lamb about to be delivered to the butcher.

  “Where is your friend?” Swift Elk signed.

  Nate wished he knew. Scott should be there somewhere, unless he had circled around and was spying on the war party from the other side. Then Nate spotted the buckskin, lathered to a froth and worn to the point of buckling. Another few steps, and the mystery of Scott’s whereabouts was solved.

  The warriors ringed a pile of firewood high enough and wide enough to serve as a bonfire. It struck Nate as odd that they would build a fire during the hottest part of the day. But it wasn’t to keep them warm or to use as a signal. It was a pyre. Only, in this instance the person to be burned was still alive.

  Scott Kendal had been staked out spread-eagle, the wood placed on top of him. From his ankles to his beard he was entirely covered.

  A tall warrior squatted. Sneering, he held out a fire steel and flint where Scott could see them. Then, tearing handfuls of grass out by the roots, he wadded the kindling between a couple of limbs.

  They were fixing to burn Scott alive! Nate counted seven, several of whom were wounded. One appeared to have a fresh gunshot hole in his shoulder. That made the odds exactly even. Turning to Swift Elk, he signed instructions.

  As the Utes crept off, Nate sank onto his belly and snaked toward Lisa and Vail Marie. His plan was simple enough. While the Utes attacked the invaders, he would cut mother and daughter loose. Once they were safe, he’d get Scott out of there. It should all be over in a matter of minutes.

  But Nate wasn’t halfway to the females when the tall warrior with the fire steel and flint stuck them together over the kindling. Within seconds the grass ignited. A few puffs by the warrior and the tiny flames swelled into larger ones that ate at the dry wood with horrific quickness. A third of the pile seemed to go up at once.

  It changed everything. Scott would die before Nate reached him unless something drastic was done. The Utes weren’t in position yet, so it was up to Nate. Flinging himself into the open, he wedged the Hawken to his shoulder and let out with a Shoshone war whoop.

  Lisa Kendall had spotted the mountain man and his allies but had not let on for fear the Ammuchabas would notice. She had thought to distract them by raising a ruckus, but when Nate and the Utes separated, she concluded they must have a plan of their own and it would be better if she followed their lead.

  Then the tall warrior lit the firewood, and Lisa’s heart stopped. Vail Marie screeched like a banshee. It galvanized Lisa into renewing her attempt to loosen her bounds. A lost cause, but she had to do something. That was her husband who would soon be charred to the bone!

  Scott Kendall had always been a fair hand at cards. He could hide his emotions with the best of them, and he did so now, hiding his apprehension as the tall man hit the fire steel against the flint. In slow motion Scott saw the sparks fly into the grass, which burst into flame. He took a breath to try and blow them out, but the wily warrior had placed the kindling too high up.

  Of all the ways Scott had imagined meeting his Maker, being roasted like a buffalo haunch wasn’t one of them. He surged upward, but he couldn’t rise an inch. Held fast by the stakes, he’d suffer agony the likes of which no one should ever endure. He could only hope the sweltering heat caused him to pass out before the flames seared his body.

  The tall warrior was smirking at him, relishing what was to come. Scott tried to collect enough spittle to spit on his tormentor, but his mouth was too dry. So he contented himself with saying, “Were you born a polecat, or have you worked at it? Too bad I won’t be around to see you get your due.”

  The tall man’s smirk widened, then disappeared as a loud cry rent the clearing. A cry Scott Kendall had heard before. The last time had been when he tangled with some Sioux, alongside Nate King.

  Twisting, Scott beheld his friend sprinting from cover and raising the Hawken.

  The war whoop had the desired effect. It diverted the attention of the seven warriors, but it also gave them a split second to react before Nate fired. And to a man, they dropped to the ground just as the rifle discharged. The lead intended for the tall one whizzed above his head.

  Instantly, the war party was up and charging, even those who were wounded. War clubs and lances were hoisted. But as the Ammuchabas attacked, out of the forest hurtled the Utes, Swift Elk at the forefront. The two sides crashed into each other like two bulls in rut.

  It was man to man, weapon to weapon, sinew pitted against sinew, reflexes matched against reflexes.

  The Ammuchaba who had shown so much interest in Lisa closed on Swift Elk. Both were armed with knives. They feinted, thrust, circled, taking the measure of each other. The older Ammuchaba thought he saw an opening, and his blade darted like the tongue of a rattler. But Swift Elk was aptly named. He sidestepped, lunged, and cut the Ammuchaba’s upper arm.

  All this Nate took in at a glance. He had gripped one of his pistols, but in the rabid swirl of battle he risked hitting an Ute by mistake, so he didn’t
shoot. Then, above the melee, rose a child’s cry.

  “Pa! Pa! Nooooooo!”

  Nate pivoted. The tall warrior had turned toward Scott. Whipping out the pistol, Nate raced to his friend’s aid. He took aim, but a pair of battling warriors filled his sights and he had to slant to the right to go around them. By then the tall warrior had his knife high overhead for a fatal stab.

  “Me! Try me!” Nate bellowed. The tall man looked around, and Nate snapped off a shot. Or tried to. The gun misfired, spewing smoke but no lead.

  All the tall warrior had to do was finish his stroke and Scott was finished. But apparently he had little or no experience with firearms. At the spurt of smoke, he recoiled, then spun on a heel and bounded for the trees.

  Nate reached the pyre. Sliding his knife out, he sank onto a knee and slashed the rope that bound Scott’s left wrist. So far only the upper layers of wood were burning. His friend had been spared from the worst of the awful heat. “I’ll cut the other one,” he said, starting to rise.

  “No! Give me the knife and go after him!” Scott responded. “I can get out of this on my own!”

  Nate didn’t like the idea.

  “We can’t let him get away! Go!” Scott insisted. “He’s their leader. He might come back again one day. Lisa and Vail Marie will never be safe as long as he’s alive.”

  “Here!” Nate shoved the hilt into his friend’s hand and barreled into the brush. Scott had a point. If any members of the war party made it to their own land alive, the Kendalls, the Wards, and Nate’s own family were in danger. He had to catch the tall man and end it, once and for all.

  Scott Kendall had thought it would be easy. He would reach across, cut his other wrist loose, and push off enough firewood for him to stand. But when he tried to reach the other stake, the mountain of branches on his chest and shoulders hampered him. He couldn’t quite do it. So, setting down the knife, he began to throw the limbs off.

  Meanwhile, the flames were burning lower, steadily lower. His buckskins were so hot, they could erupt in flame at any time. Sweating profusely, he grit his teeth and kept throwing, throwing, throwing.