Wilderness Giant Edition 6

by David Robbins

  Rope clutched at the rawhide, his fingernails scraping his neck raw.

  Ramming a knee into the Ute’s spine, Shakespeare crossed his forearms and pulled. The warrior broke into a frenzy of clawing and twisting and thrashing. Using his knee for leverage, Shakespeare heaved backward, throwing his entire weight into it. The rawhide was digging so deeply into the Ute’s flesh that it was covered by folds of skin.

  Rope’s right hand dropped to his knife. He pulled the blade out, but as he raised his arm to hack at his rope, his limbs drooped. His head lolled forward.

  “For what you did, you bastard!” Shakespeare hissed, pulling harder. The warrior gave a few wheezing pants, then collapsed like a deflated balloon.

  Shoving the body, Shakespeare dashed to Blue Water Woman., She was covered with cuts and welts, her buckskin dress half gone, her body smeared red. “Oh, God,” he said. She was so still, but her eyes were open and fixed on him in radiant joy. “You’re alive!”

  Blue Water Woman had to swallow several times before she could speak. “Husband,” she said fondly.

  Kneeling, Shakespeare tenderly placed her head in his lap. “Wife,” he choked, stemming a flood tide of tears.

  “I came to save you, and you save me,” Blue Water Woman joked. Her laugh was more a brittle cough. Weakness pervaded her every pore.

  “Hush, woman,” Shakespeare scolded. “I’ll get you up in the hills somewhere safe and tend you night and day until you’re back on your feet.” He started to rise so he could lift her, but she entwined her fingers in his.

  “No!” A wave of dizziness made it difficult for Blue Water Woman to form coherent thoughts. But she must. “The Kings—” she croaked.

  “We’ll go to their cabin once you’re fit enough,” Shakespeare promised.

  “You—do—not—understand,” Blue Water Woman said, every syllable a labor of effort. The dizziness was worse, much worse. She licked her lips and opened her mouth to tell Shakespeare that the Kings were being held captive by Manuel de Varga, and about the slaughter at the lake. They must save Nate and Winona before it was too late.

  “Don’t fret yourself,” Shakespeare said, gently caressing her cheek.

  “But—” Blue Water Woman could barely say. She fought to stay awake and alert, but a roiling black cloud sucked her into a spinning vortex and consciousness dimmed.

  It would soon be dark.

  Nate King took a sip of coffee while surveying the encampment. Four roaring fires lit up the scene. The horses and pack animals were tethered at the north end, grazing on grass brought in earlier. Cooking pots hung from tripods. Rosa and another woman were carving a deer haunch. A handsome vaquero strummed on a guitar.

  To the right of the mine entrance lay a pile of timber that would be used to shore up the mine in the morning. The ore carts had been rolled down the incline and were being repaired by an older man and several helpers.

  The Vargas had one of the fires all to themselves. The men sat on one side, the women on the other. Most of them were merry and talkative, buoyed by their newfound riches. Even Don Varga was in good spirits. Gone was the gloom that had oppressed him for days. He joked and laughed along with his children.

  Martin, oddly enough, was quiet and reserved. He did not take part in their discussions, and when the others broke out in peals of mirth, he merely smiled.

  “How soon, Pa?” Zach asked.

  Nate faced his loved ones. “Not until everyone is asleep except the guards,” he whispered.

  “That could be well past midnight,” Zach grumbled, boiling with impatience.

  “We’ll only get one crack at this,” Nate reminded him. “We must do it right, or else.” He did not elaborate. Each of them knew what the “or else” implied.

  Evelyn was picking up handfuls of dirt and letting it sift through her fingers. “I know what I’m supposed to do, Pa,” she said excitedly. Her parents had never entrusted her with anything so important before, and she was eager to show that she could be counted on.

  “Whatever happens, do not be afraid, little one,” Winona said. “We will not let them hurt you.”

  “I’m not scared, Ma,” Evelyn declared with the cheery innocence typical of someone her tender age. “Not one little bit.”

  The aroma of roasting deer meat made Nate’s mouth water. Most of the vaqueros, he noticed, had gathered around the fire closest to the horse string. Usually they were spread out at several fires.

  When Martin rose and moved toward them, Nate’s interest was piqued. Martin spent more time with the vaqueros than any of the Vargas, including his father and older brother. It was safe to say that the vaqueros were more fond of him than their patron.

  Azul drifted over to the group. Normally, the Maricopas kept to themselves, so this was equally unusual. The warrior hunkered beside Martin and a stocky vaquero named Pedro. They talked in whispers, Martin gesturing as if giving instructions.

  At the fire nearest the mine, Maria was pouring more coffee for her father. Ignacio was polishing a pistol. Diego examined the bandage on his leg. Francisca and Luisa had broken out knitting needles and yarn, a favorite pastime of theirs.

  Against the far wall were stacked the expedition’s supplies, tools, ammunition, and sundry items. Somewhere among that huge pile were two bundles Nate must retrieve: a blanket wrapped around their rifles, pistols, powder horns, and ammo pouches; and another in which his possibles bag and Winona’s large leather pouch had been placed.

  “Say, Pa, what do you reckon that bunch is up to?”

  Martin, Azul, and the vaqueros with them had risen and were moving in a body toward the fire ringed by the Vargas. The three men assigned to guard Nate’s family turned, one of them swearing under his breath in Spanish.

  Nate recollected that the skinniest of their guards spoke a smattering of English. “What is it, Ramirez?” he asked. “What’s happening?”

  “Silencio, Americano.”

  Don Varga had seen his middle son approaching. He rose, a coffee cup in hand, his brow knit in perplexity. In Spanish he said something that provoked a curt response from Martin.

  Ignacio stood, pistol at his side. Diego glanced up but did not stand. The sisters shared confused looks, Luisa edging toward Francisca.

  “What is going on?” Nate pressed.

  Ramirez swore again. “This mucho bad, gringo. There was talk. But I never believe him do it.”

  Nate stepped closer. “Who? Do what?”

  Martin had halted a few feet from his father. Planting himself, his thumbs hooked in his sash, he addressed Don Varga at length. And the longer he talked, the angrier his father grew.

  “Tell us, please,” Nate said, his intuition warning him that whatever was about to occur did not bode well for his family.

  “Martin be long time mad,” Ramirez translated as best he could. “When little, him always second best. Father always like Ignacio more. Then Diego born. Father like Diego more than Martin, too. Martin be madder.”

  It shed new light on a lot Martin had done that Nate had been puzzled by. “Why is Martin bringing it up now?”

  Ramirez motioned for him to be quiet. The middle son had stopped talking and was awaiting his father’s reply. It came in the form of hot coffee, flung in Martin’s face when Don Varga hurled the cup. Martin calmly wiped himself with a sleeve and made a remark that enraged his father. Clenching his fists, Manuel stalked forward, only to abruptly halt when half the vaqueros backing Martin leveled guns.

  The gorge crackled with tension. Ignacio, Diego, and ten or eleven vaqueros moved to Don Varga’s side. Rifles and pistols were fingered. Knives and daggers were fondled. All it would take was a tiny spark to inflame them and incite a bloodbath.

  Don Varga jabbed a finger at Martin. Now it was the middle son who flushed and glowered.

  “What is your patron saying?” Nate prodded.

  Ramirez was a study in confusion. “Him say Martin always worthless. Him say Martin never like work. Always want do things easy
way. Always care more for what he want than what others might want.” Ramirez paused, becoming more nervous. “Patron say Ignacio good worker. Diego always try hard.”

  Martin’s remark to his father caused Maria, Francisca, and Luisa to leap to their feet. Ignacio started to push past his father, but Don Varga stopped him.

  “This bad, bad, bad,” Ramirez said. “Martin say him tired way things are. Him want be head of family. Him want gold for his own.”

  Don Varga did the absolutely worst thing he could have under the circumstances: He laughed, long and hard. Hands on his hips, he chided his middle son, then barked commands at Pedro and the vaqueros with Martin.

  “Patron say Martin get gold over patron's dead body. Him tell men go sit down,” Ramirez said.

  No one moved.

  Martin imitated his father, draping his hands on his hips and using the exact tone of voice Don Varga has just used.

  Ramirez appeared ready to bolt. “Martin say those men his men now. Him pay them more, treat them better. They take orders from him alone. Him tell patron to drop weapons.”

  Decades of pent-up hatred were etched on Martin’s contorted features. Years of being the black sheep of the family, of being treated as if he were less than the dirt under his feet, had taken a terrible toll. He was a lit cannon waiting to explode. Which he did the next moment, when Ignacio snarled and elevated his pistol.

  A few seconds earlier, Winona had clasped Evelyn to her and retreated toward a boulder that would offer sanctuary should shooting break out. None of the guards stopped her. They were as mesmerized by the impending clash as everyone else. None of the three seemed to know whom they should support. It was the same with a dozen or so others.

  Suddenly Martin roared. Pedro shot Ignacio, and wholesale carnage erupted. Vaqueros on both sides opened fire. From other points in the camp men rushed to take part. Most, Nate noted, backed Martin.

  More than half of Manuel de Varga’s vaqueros were down, dead or writhing in their own blood. Six or seven of Martin’s men had also taken lead balls. At an order from Martin, the rest charged. The battle became a whirlwind of confusion, shouts, and screams.

  Nate saw Ignacio on his knees, a scarlet stream staining the firebrand’s fancy white shirt. Ignacio had dropped the pistol and had his left arm tucked to his side. His right hand dipped under his sash and reappeared flourishing his dagger. It sank to the hilt in the gut of one of Martin’s men, then flicked upward, slitting the throat of another.

  A third vaquero raised a rifle butt to cave in Ignacio’s skull, and was stabbed in the groin. The man staggered back. Losing his grip, Ignacio snatched up his pistol and looked around.

  Don Varga was wounded in four places, but still he fought on. He punched a vaquero, kicked another. As he drew back his arm, Martin stepped in front of him, a pistol ready to fire. The middle son showed no regret, no remorse, no hesitation. He shot his father squarely in the face.

  Maria screamed. Ignacio raised his pistol to shoot Martin and was smashed to the earth by three shots from three different vaqueros.

  Just like that, it was over. Manuel de Varga and all those who had sided with him were dead.

  Aglow with vicious glee, Martin lowered his smoking flintlock and scanned the broken, blasted bodies. His sinister gaze drifted from spot to spot—and centered on the Kings.

  Twenty-Three

  Nate King felt his insides shrivel as Martin Varga, accompanied by ten or more loyal vaqueros, came toward those who were everything to him. Winona and Evelyn emerged from behind the boulder, and Nate automatically placed himself between them and Martin.

  Seeing what his pa had done, Zach stepped to Nate’s side and said so only his father could hear, “Just let him try to hurt us. I’ll hold his legs while you rip his throat out.”

  Nate tore his eyes from Martin. Was that his son talking? The boy who had once cried and cried when Nate put a deathly sick pony out of its misery? The same boy who had been heartbroken for weeks when Apaches killed the family dog? He reminded himself to have a long talk with Zach after they got back home. That was, if they lived long enough to reach it.

  “Well, Señor King,” Martin said as suavely as if they had just met at the theater. “The situation is changed, no?”

  “Did you have to do that?” Nate said, nodding at the bodies being checked by vaqueros for signs of life.

  “Si, señor. I did.” Martin faced Ramirez and the other two guards. “But first, what of you three?” he said in English. “You did not help mi padre. But neither did you help me. Where does your allegiance lie?”

  The tip of Ramirez’s tongue rimmed his mouth. “You are the new patron. What you say, we do.”

  Martin was pleased. “You will not regret it, amigo. Those who side with me will be amply rewarded. You will make more money on this journey than you would make in a lifetime. I am not stingy, like my father. My wealth will be freely shared.”

  Nate was tempted to comment that it sounded to him as if Martin was buying silence with gold, but he did not.

  “Now, where were we?” the betrayer said, turning. “Oh, si. What to do with you and your familia? Can you give me one good reason why I should not have you shot where you stand?”

  “What have we ever done to you?” Nate retorted. “Haven’t we always been friendly? Have we treated you any differently than we treated Ignacio or Diego?”

  At the mention of the youngest son, Zach looked toward the fire. One of those bodies lying lifeless was Diego’s. A ball had splintered his cheek and blown out the rear of his cranium. Nearby were the three petrified sisters, Maria doing her best to console Francisca and Luisa.

  “No, you have not,” Martin was saying. “It is to your credit, but it is not enough to keep you alive.”

  “Then how about this,” Nate said, and paused, anxiously seeking a valid excuse Martin would buy. Something. Anything. The sight of Azul, crumpled in a miserable heap, was the inspiration he needed. “You’ve already tangled with the Utes. And you’re smart enough to know that they’re not the only tribe you might meet up with. I can be of use if that happens.”

  “How, señor?”

  “I know sign language,” Nate said, and to illustrate, he gestured with his fingers and hands, saying, in effect, “You man with bad heart.”

  “I know of this finger talk,” Martin said. “Jasper Flynt was fluent in it. A small band of Pawnees visited our camp once, and he talked with them by signs.” He tapped his chin. “Very well, señor. You get to live. But only so long as it suits me.” Pivoting, he told Ramirez, “Tie them hand and foot.”

  “What?” Nate blurted. Seeing their chance to escape ruined, he grabbed Martin. “I gave your father my word that I’d behave.”

  Martin jerked his arm free. “I am not my father, gringo. Never lay a hand on me again.” Brushing his sleeve where the mountain man had gripped it, he left.

  Covered by pistols, Nate and his family were securely bound. Winona sought to soothe him by saying, “Look at the bright side, husband. At least they did not gag us.”

  “Don’t give them any notions,” Nate spat. Now it would be ten times as hard to flee before the Utes came. He had waited too long to make his bid, and his wife and children would pay for his oversight. “Damn!”

  The eternal optimism of youth prompted Zach to say, “We’ll turn the tables yet, Pa. Just wait.” Would they really? Nate wondered. Or were they deceiving themselves?

  The next morning, Martin oversaw a mass burial. His father and brothers were laid to rest in individual graves, but the vaqueros who had perished were dumped in a mass unmarked hole. That afternoon, under Martin’s direction, the work on the mine began in earnest. The timbers were replaced one by one, from the entrance on back. Practically every last vaquero was pressed into service.

  A single guard watched the captives. Five others were off felling trees. Unlike his father, Martin did not see fit to post sentries at the gorge mouth.

  Toward evening Martin assembled the exp
edition members. His speech was in Spanish, so Nate caught only bits and pieces, enough to glean that Martin had promised them all they would be well set for life if they obeyed him as diligently as they had obeyed his padre.

  The vaqueros cheered their approval. But many of the family servants were downcast, especially Rosa. Formerly so full of zest and cheer, she went about her duties as one half dead.

  By the evening of the second day, digging was under way. The first cartload of ore rattled down the incline shortly before sunset, to another resounding cheer.

  By the evening of the third day, a pile of pure gold as tall as Zach lay gleaming and glittering in the firelight. Martin spent hours touching and rubbing the ore, and took a piece with him to his blankets when he turned in.

  The fourth day began no differently than the others. The Kings were untied so they could eat breakfast and briefly stretch their legs under the watchful eyes of four vaqueros. Afterward they were tied and left to bake in the hot sun. At noon Martin ambled over and sat on a boulder. “It goes well,” he gloated. “We will have more gold than we can transport by the end of the month.”

  “And what then?” Nate quizzed him. “What will you do with us?”

  “I do not think you truly want to know, señor. Suffice it to say, you should enjoy life while you have it, eh?” Martin chortled lightly.

  Nate had been meaning to ask another question. “I’m curious. I know that Azul killed Chivari and the other two Maricopas. Did you have a hand in that?”

  “Of course,” Martin crowed. “Chivari and the others would not turn against my father. They wanted no part of it, and they gave me their word that they would not interfere.”

  “But you had them murdered anyway.”

  “I do not take undue risks, señor. Azul agreed to dispose of them when he could. The chasm in the mine was most convenient.”