Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  “What’s the matter with you, old-timer? Are you sickly?”

  Jeb Calloway had his rifle in the crook of an elbow. He bit off the end of a plug of tobacco and offered some to McNair. “Want a chaw?”

  “Thank you kindly, but no,” Shakespeare said. “I had the habit once and I grew out of it. Having yellow teeth never appealed to me.”

  “Why not?” Calloway said, touching his own. “I always thought yellow was a pretty color.”

  Shakespeare stood, his sore leg twinging. “Never lived with a woman, have you?”

  “Just whores,” Calloway said. “Had me a fat one down to New Orleans, once. Lordy, how she jiggled! And her lips! When she kissed a feller, it was like sinkin’ into a pillow. I sure did like her.”

  “Why did you split up?”

  “I ran out of money.”

  Shakespeare limped on by to return to his boulder. Ordinarily the cutthroats left him to his own devices, but now the Alabamian was in a talkative mood and dogged his steps.

  “What’s it like, McNair, havin’ an Injun wife?”

  The mountain man stopped dead. “Why do you want to know, Calloway?”

  “Lower your horns, old man. I ain’t out to insult you. I’ve just been thinkin’ of gettin’ me a woman of my own one of these days, and I’ve heard tell that Injun gals are easy to live with.”

  “Who fed you that yarn?” Shakespeare said, sitting. “Females are the most contrary critters on God’s green earth. Compared to them, mules are downright levelheaded. You’ve never seen stubborn until you try to get a woman to change her mind.”

  Jeb Calloway chuckled. “Hell, if they’re that bad, why do menfolk take up with ’em?”

  “We’re gluttons for punishment, I reckon,” Shakespeare bantered. Of all the renegades, only Calloway had treated him halfway friendly. The Alabamian had no business riding with a rogue like Jasper Flynt. Calloway was a none-too-bright coon hound who had taken up with a pack of ravening wolves. He was in way over his head.

  “You’re joshin’ me, old-timer. You must like females, or you wouldn’t have a missus.”

  “I’ve had several,” Shakespeare disclosed. And he had outlived every one. “They have their good qualities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Where to begin?” Shakespeare said. “Trying to tell a man who’s never had a wife how great it can be is like trying to tell a man who’s never eaten painter how delicious the meat tastes.”

  “I’ve ate panther.”

  “You’re missing the point.” Leaning back, Shakespeare let his mind drift over the many years he had lived, recollecting the high points of his dealings with the opposite gender. “Women can be soft and tender and loving. They make us laugh, mend us when we’re hurt, comfort us when we’re troubled.” He paused. “They bear our children. And if you’ve never seen a woman give birth, you have no idea of the hurt they put themselves through. I could never do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Have babies.”

  Calloway cackled. “That’s a silly notion. Men ain’t got the right parts.”

  “Thank God,” Shakespeare said. “I’d make a terrible woman. I could never put up with the shenanigans men pull. All that drinking and cussing and complaining about everything under the sun. And the liberties they take.”

  “You’ve done lost me, friend.”

  “Ever hit a woman?”

  “Just once. A whore tried to steal my poke. If she hadn’t tripped over her cat, I’d never have caught her.”

  “Ever forced yourself on one who didn’t want your attentions?”

  “No, sir. My ma taught me better than that. She used to take a dagger to Pa whenever he got too frisky and she wasn’t in the mood. Taught me not to get stuck, it did.” Calloway’s forehead creased. “What’s all this got to do with what we were talkin’ about?”

  “I was trying to show you how hard it is for women to put up with us men.”

  Jeb snickered, then said, “You must be gettin’ addle pated, old feller. I want to know why a man should take up with ’em, not why they shouldn’t take up with us. What’s the reason?”

  “Because they’re there.”

  “Huh?”

  “It beats kissing a tree all hollow.”

  “You’re pokin’ fun again.” Calloway had a bulge in his cheek big enough to choke a bear. Tobacco juice commenced to dribble from the left corner of his mouth. “The way I see it, a woman is good for cookin’ and sewin’ and cleanin’ and such. And the other thing, naturally.”

  “Other thing?”

  “You know,” Calloway said, his cheeks tinged red.

  It was Shakespeare’s turn to laugh, and he did so uproariously, drawing mixed stares from the other renegades. “Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!”

  Calloway blinked. “Who does all that?”

  “Women, friend. Women.”

  The Alabamian spat. “You’re a mighty peculiar bird, McNair. One minute you act like one of us, the next you’re spoutin’ that flowery talk like those fellers who prance around on stages in dresses.” He spat again, hitting a beetle. “My ma drug me to one of them affairs when I was a kid. I couldn’t help laughin’, which riled her so bad, she walloped me on my ear and split it.” Pulling his long hair aside, he showed the scar. “See there?”

  “Incredible,” Shakespeare said.

  “If’n you ask me, they ought to warn folks about them plays in advance. Hell, how was I to know it was—what did my ma call it—a tragedy?” Calloway shook his head. “I thought those fellers was jumpin’ around like they had ants in their britches to be funny.”

  Coins clinked in the quiet when Jeb stopped talking. One of the sleepers snored lightly. And faintly, from the north, the breeze brought with it the distinct sound of war whoops.

  Shakespeare pushed to his feet. So did all the cutthroats who were awake, their hands falling to pistols or grabbing rifles. Jasper Flynt came running, leading a general rush to the far end of the shelf.

  “We’d better give a listen,” Calloway said, jogging to join his companions.

  Shakespeare began to follow, then halted. No one was watching him. Why wait for nightfall, when here was a perfect opportunity? Hustling to the cleft, he paused to confirm that the band was riveted on the slopes to the north. In two more paces he was at the pool. Another took him into it, the cold water rising as high as his waist as he waded across.

  The bottom of the pool was slippery stone. Footing was treacherous, made more so by the rope that hobbled him as if he were a horse. Stepping carefully, he reached the middle. A few more feet would do it.

  Out on the shelf someone shouted. Had they discovered he was missing? Fearing that was the case, Shakespeare lunged toward the quartz. In his eagerness, he overextended himself. His right foot was tugged up short by the rope. His leg slid out from under him. He desperately grasped at the edge for support, but he was not close enough.

  Shakespeare went under. Since the pool was only three and a half feet deep, he was not alarmed. He would plant both feet, stand, and everything would be all right.

  But when he tried to steady himself, his moccasins kept slipping. Matters were made worse by the fact that he could not use his arms for added balance, not with his hands bound in front of him. He tried again to break the surface and nearly succeeded, when he was spilled onto his backside.

  From being laughable, the situation had grown deadly serious. Shakespeare could feel water in his ears, in his nose. His lungs were in need of air. Placing both hands flat, he shoved upward, thrusting with his knees to gain momentum. It worked. His head surged clear, and he greedily sucked in a breath.

  It was a momentary reprieve. Shakespeare attempted to straighten, but the soles of his moccasins were like liquid glass. Down he sprawled, inadvertently swallowing water as it closed over him. His hat was swept off.

&
nbsp; How could this be happening? Shakespeare asked himself in disbelief as he propped both knees under him. He’d had strings of bad luck before, but nothing to rival this latest.

  Thrusting his arms upward, Shakespeare knifed toward the rear rim. Air replaced the water. Undulating like an eel, he cleaved the pool. He had to grit his teeth against searing pain when he accidentally smacked his hands against the jagged edge.

  Clinging for dear life, Shakespeare calmed himself. Ever so slowly, he lowered his legs and uncoiled. The piece of quartz was inches away. Palming the slender rock, he examined the serrated edge. It wasn’t as sharp as a knife, but it would do nicely.

  Resisting an urge to hurry, Shakespeare waded toward the cleft opening. He retrieved his beaver hat, which had begun to sink. Climbing out was an exercise in concentration.

  At last, dripping wet, McNair straightened. After wringing the hat out, he plopped it on his head. Then he bent and slid the quartz under the top of his knee-high moccasin. Wriggling his leg so it would slide even lower, he hobbled into the open.

  The renegades were returning. Jasper Flynt’s eyes narrowed and he asked suspiciously, “What in the hell happened to you?”

  “I fell in,” Shakespeare lied. Wagging his tied wrists at the hobble around his ankles, he groused, “It’s these damn ropes! How do you expect me to get around trussed up like this?”

  Jeb Calloway burst into throaty mirth. “Fell in!” he repeated. Others rated it just as humorous, and soon practically every last cutthroat was braying lustily.

  Shakespeare meekly grinned. Let them enjoy their moment. His was about to come. He had the quartz. Now all he needed was for the sun to set.

  Fourteen

  The three Utes took one look at their fallen friend, glanced up at Blue Water Woman, and were transformed into vengeful demons. Uttering piercing war whoops, they raced up the slope after her.

  Blue Water Woman did not wait a second before wheeling and bounding to the sorrel. Swinging astride its back, she flew northward, her long hair streaming in her wake. She had no weapon other than her Green River knife, but she had a substantial lead on the Utes and a horse that Shakespeare had selected for its speed and stamina. She was confident she could shake the warriors, then return to help her husband.

  The three Utes gained the ridge. The first man through the gap slowed, swinging his bow to the left and the right. When he spotted her, he gave chase, yipping in fierce abandon.

  Through the gap filed the other two. The second man rode a small, wiry horse with an odd speckled coat and a shaggy mane. Its body was too low to the ground, its legs too short, its tail skimpy. In short, it was everything a horse should not be, the sort of animal that no seasoned horseman would ever want, a scraggly mustang that did not seem fit enough to go fast or far. But that animal could fly!

  Blue Water Woman glanced over a shoulder and was filled with consternation on seeing the horse flash toward her like a four-legged dragonfly.

  The Ute riding it wore a wolfish grin. He knew what his mount was capable of. He knew that he would overtake her, that there was no getting away.

  Using her reins and legs to full advantage, Blue Water Woman pushed the sorrel to its limit, and slightly beyond. They streaked past boulders, trees, and shrubs. They jumped logs, skirted deadfalls, tore through brush that clawed at them and drew blood.

  Howling and screeching, the Utes came on. The man on the speckled animal did not exert himself all that much, yet his horse narrowed the distance with astounding rapidity. His grin widened as her lead shrank.

  Hope presented itself in the form of a pine-covered slope. Blue Water Woman shot in among the trees at a reckless speed. Weaving and winding, she fled deeper and deeper into the woodland. If only she could find a spot to hide until the Utes had gone by!

  A boulder the size of Nate King’s cabin offered her the chance she needed. Reining around to the rear, Blue Water Woman stopped and leaned forward to keep the sorrel from nickering. Within moments the Utes pounded on by, still whooping and hollering. They had been following her by sight instead of by her tracks, so they did not catch on to the deception right away.

  Tingling with elation, Blue Water Woman waited until the cries tapered before she kneed the sorrel back around the boulder and turned to the south to cement her escape. She faced front, and froze.

  Fifteen yards away stood the speckled horse, its rider smirking smugly. He had guessed her ruse and outfoxed her.

  Instantly, Blue Water Woman cut the sorrel to the right and hurtled into the densely packed trees. Limbs gouged her, buffeted her, nearly blinded her. She swatted at them, receiving a gash on her forearm.

  Suddenly, hooves drummed beside the sorrel. The Ute was right there, reaching for her arm. Blue Water Woman jerked away, then kicked at him. She hit his leg, but all it did was enlarge his smirk.

  Their horses burst into the open. Blue Water Woman veered to the right again, but the speckled horse was superbly trained; it stayed alongside the sorrel, never missing a stride. Again the Ute lunged, his hand locking on her wrist. She tried to pull free, but he was too strong.

  Slowing, Blue Water Woman swung her knife at the warrior’s chest. He let go of his reins to snatch her wrist, and twisted sharply. The blade slipped from her pain-racked fingers. As their horses came to a stop, she struggled with all her might to slip from his grasp.

  With a lusty yell, the Ute threw himself at her. Blue Water Woman was borne from the small Flathead-style saddle. She tried to turn so that he would land on the bottom, but he was too heavy. They fell on their sides, the warrior scrambling to his knees before she could and pinning her shoulders.

  A wildcat gone berserk, Blue Water Woman fought ferociously. She clawed. She punched. She sought to knee the Ute in the groin. He planted his knee on her left arm, rendering it useless, and nearly succeeded in the doing the same to her right. Wrenching loose, she glimpsed the knife lying close by and grabbed for it, but her fingertips fell a whisker’s width short.

  The Ute let out with a series of yells. Blue Water Woman did not need to speak the Ute tongue to know what he was doing. Soon his fellow warriors would arrive.

  Redoubling her efforts, Blue Water Woman bucked upward and almost dislodged him. He clung to her like a tenacious vine, even when her knee drove into his ribs hard enough to elicit a grunt.

  Underbrush crackled not far off. Blue Water Woman had only moments in which to act. She heaved upward and to the left, both knees ramming into the Ute’s torso. His grip slipped. Capitalizing on her opportunity, she shoved him and was on her feet quicker than a startled antelope. Three long bounds brought her to the sorrel. She flung her arms onto its neck and started to pull herself up.

  Arms corded thickly with sinew closed on her waist. She was roughly hauled off and thrown bodily to the earth. Dazed, Blue Water Woman saw the undergrowth part. The other two Utes angled toward her.

  Desperately, she catapulted to her feet. She aimed a kick at the man who barred her way, but he sidestepped, seized her leg, and dumped her flat on her back. She put her hands flat under her, refusing to give up, even now, when she was surrounded, when the other two warriors were almost on top of her, when continued resistance would prove futile.

  She made it to her knees. Diving figures slammed into her from behind and from the left. It was akin to being butted by two buffaloes at once. She crumpled like a piece of rotted bark.

  Breathing heavily, Blue Water Woman went limp. Maybe, if they believed all the fight had gone out of her, they would relax their grips. Maybe they would also relax their guard and let her get up on her own.

  All it would take was a couple of steps to reach the sorrel.

  The Ute who owned the swift horse reared over her. He held a coiled rawhide rope. At sight of it, Blue Water Woman resisted more fiercely than ever, but they were too many. She was rolled onto her stomach, her wrists tied securely. A loop was then made around her neck and she was roughly pulled erect.

  The man with the rope regard
ed her from head to toe. He addressed her in his tongue, and when she did not react fast enough to suit him, he slapped her.

  Blue Water Woman held her head high, her shoulders squared. She could expect no mercy from any of them. They undoubtedly believed she had slain their comrade deliberately, and they would treat her accordingly.

  A heated parley broke out. The stoutest of the Utes argued with the man who had caught her and the third warrior, who had a hooked nose. Stout, as she thought of him, made his intentions perfectly plain by tapping his knife hilt and gesturing as if he were slitting a throat.

  Evidently, Rope and Hook Nose did not want her killed immediately. Rope, especially, appeared to want to take her back to their village. Finally Stout turned away, his expression proof he had lost the dispute.

  Blue Water Woman was half-carried, half-dragged to the sorrel. Rope and Hook Nose each grasped an arm and propelled her upward, but the sorrel, spooked by the unfamiliar scents and guttural growling of Rope, shied. Instead of being draped across the sorrel’s broad back, Blue Water Woman plummeted, striking her forehead hard enough to stun her.

  Hook Nose ran after the sorrel, which would have vanished in the trees if not for Stout. With remarkable alacrity, he intercepted the horse and snagged the reins.

  Again the warriors carted her over. Again she was treated like a sack of grain. Stout held onto the sorrel’s neck, so even though it nickered and pulled back, Blue Water Woman wound up on her belly on top.

  Rope forked the speckled horse. Holding the other end of the rope, he set off at a brisk walk. Whenever the sorrel slowed, he would tug on it, and she would goad the sorrel with her legs.

  It made more sense to loop the rope around the sorrel’s neck, not hers. Blue Water Woman suspected that the Ute wanted her to suffer in retribution for the death of the warrior who had been crushed. Whatever the case, her neck soon grew sore and raw.

  Her spirits fell. To have been so close to Shakespeare, and now this! Once they reached the Ute village, the likelihood of escape was slim. They would have her under constant guard. Should, by some miracle, they spare her, misery would be her lot, either as an unwilling mate to a warrior or perhaps as a slave to one of the older women, a practice of the Sioux and other tribes.