Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  Nate had dismounted and was stretching his legs by walking in small circles when he saw Eric Nash seated by the mare, his head cradled in his hands. Going over, Nate asked, “How are you holding up?”

  “Are you daft? How you think I’m holding up?”

  “You’ve no call to be mad at me,” Nate said. “I’m your friend, remember?”

  Eric glanced up, his features betraying his agony. “Sorry,” he said softly. “This bloody head of mine is pounding so bad I can hardly think straight.”

  “Maybe you should stay here and we’ll swing by on our way back.”

  “I’m seeing this through, Nate, and nothing Four Bears or you or anyone else says is going to stop me from pressing on.” Eric winced, then continued. “Maybe I’m too stubborn by half, maybe I’m just crazy, but I refuse to quit while she’s in danger. I was the one who asked for her hand in front of the whole damn tribe. This is my way of showing I was sincere.”

  “No one doubts your sincerity, Eric. You have nothing to prove to anyone else.”

  “Perhaps I have something to prove to myself.”

  The matter had to be dropped because a moment later Four Bears swung onto his war horse and gave the command for everyone to do likewise. In a compact group, the Mandans rode off, their best trackers in the lead.

  Nate hung back, at the rear, next to Nash. The Englishman had begun to sway every so often, and occasionally he would close his eyes for yards at a time, then open them with a snap as if he had been roused from sleep. The flow of blood from under his bandage had stopped, but the bandage itself was soaked.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when another small stream crossed their path. Four Bears again stopped, so they could let their animals drink. As Nash began to climb down, his arms suddenly went limp, his legs buckled, and with a groan he crashed to the ground.

  Nate reached him first and gently rolled the Englishman over. Eric looked up at him, his eyes silently pleading, and gripped Nate’s sleeve.

  “Please. Don’t let them leave me.”

  “Can you stand?” Nate asked.

  The Englishman placed both hands down, shoved, and rose onto his elbows. His shoulders quaking, he tried to rise higher, his face turning livid from the exertion. After half a minute he gave up, groaned, and sank flat on his back. “Not at the moment,” he said softly.

  Four Bears and several warriors had walked over to them. The chief squatted and regarded the Englishman regretfully, then signed, “Can he ride?”

  “Not for a while,” Nate answered.

  “I warned him. If he is not able to join us when we move on, we must leave him here to fend for himself.”

  “Do what you have to,” Nate signed.

  “I do not want to leave him, Grizzly Killer. I like him, even though in many ways he is like a small child. I hope he does one day marry my daughter.”

  “He will,” Nate predicted.

  Frowning, the chief straightened and walked off.

  “What did he say?” Eric wanted to know, and when Nate had translated, he grinned and declared, “Wonderful! I knew he’d see me right, given time. Mark my words. Morning Dew is as good as mine.”

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. First we have to rescue her from the Sioux.”

  “I’ll be on my feet in no time. Then we’ll go teach the bleeding Sioux what’s what.”

  But although Nash tried repeatedly, he couldn’t find the strength to stay on his feet. Twice he stood, and each time he would have promptly fallen on his face had Nate not been there to catch him. When Nash saw the Mandans mounting, he grew desperate and rashly lunged upright a third time. Grinning in triumph, he took a step toward the mare, faltered, moaned, and staggered dizzily.

  Once again Nate had to grab hold and slowly ease the Englishman to the ground. He heard horses approach and glanced over his shoulder.

  “No?” Four Bears asked.

  “No,” Nate signed.

  “Then I have no choice. He must stay here. But we will come back this way when we return to our village and take him with us.” Four Bears nodded at the gelding. “Hurry. Every moment is precious.”

  “You go on without me.”

  “You are staying too?”

  “If I leave him, he might die. As you know, he does not know how to take care of himself very well.” Nate sighed. “As much as I want to go with you, I gave my word I would guide Lake Eyes and his friends safely to the land of the white men, and I cannot break my promise. I must watch over them until then.”

  “You are a man of honor, Grizzly Killer,” Four Bears said. “Stay, then.” He looked at McNair. “And what about you, Wolverine? Will you come or remain?”

  “I would like to go ...” the mountain man began, then hesitated and looked at Nate.

  “Go on, you old goat. I know you don’t want to miss tangling with the Sioux, and Nash doesn’t need two of us to nurse him. We’ll be fine by ourselves.”

  “You’re sure? I’ll stay if you want me to.”

  “Just give the Sioux hell for me.”

  “I will.” Shakespeare beamed and turned his horse. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Shoot sharps the word.”

  For the longest while Nate knelt and watched the receding figures of the Mandans and his mentor. The drumming of hoofs faded to silence, and all that was left were lingering puffs of dust. Nate and Eric were alone in a shimmering sea of buffalo grass that rippled and waved in the mild northwesterly breeze.

  The unconscious Englishman was in a bad way. His forehead was warm to Nate’s touch, and he tossed and turned frequently while mumbling incoherently.

  Nate used his butcher knife to cut a strip of fabric off Nash’s jacket. Once the material had been dipped in the stream, he applied the drenched strip to Nash’s brow and sat back. There was really nothing else he could do except let Nature take its course. He’s seen the results of enough head wounds to know Nash would revive in due course and probably be none the worse for wear.

  Other than the whispering of the rustling grass, all was quiet. Not even a bird chirped. Nate dipped his hands in the cool water and splashed some on his face. Rising, he made a survey of the horizon in all directions, checking for game. There was none, not even the ubiquitous antelope.

  Over the next hour the only life Nate observed was a single red hawk that swooped in low to inspect them and then arced high into the air in its never-ending search for prey. Shortly thereafter the hawk dived into the tall grass to the west, and when it reappeared a struggling rabbit was clutched in its iron talons.

  Nate sat down next to the Englishman, plucked a blade of grass, broke off the bottom portion of the tender stem, and stuck it between his teeth. He wondered how long it would be before Nash could move on, and whether he should scout around for something to eat right then or wait until later. The voice at his side inadvertently made him jump.

  “Where are the rest?”

  “They left a while ago.”

  “Damn them.”

  “If there’s one thing I learned long ago, it’s to never blame others for our own stupidity. You knew the risks you were taking when you came along. You’re as stubborn as a mule, Eric,” Nate said, grinning. “And I admire you for it. Most folks say I’m a hard-headed cuss myself.”

  “So what now?”

  “Now we cool our heels here until they swing back this way.”

  “I wanted to be there when they find Morning Dew.”

  “Sorry, Eric. I truly am.” Nate gazed up from the Englishman’s dejected countenance and saw the mare straying off to the east. “Be right back,” he said. Pushing to his feet, he hastened to catch her before she went too far while mentally berating himself for not hobbling both horses earlier.

  Even greenhorns knew it was better to count ribs than tracks.

  Nate was fifteen yards from the spot where Nash lay when the sight of a hoofprint in the soft earth beside the stream gave him pause. Glancing down, he spied many more, f
resh tracks of unshod horses, nine in all. The horses that made them had been moving eastward at a gallop.

  Perplexed, Nate studied the ground. He absently scratched his head and mulled over the possibilities until, in a rush of insight, he realized the truth and he stiffened as if jarred by lightning. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter?” Eric called.

  “Four Bears and the others are following the wrong trail!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The ruse was so devilishly clever that Nate admired the Sioux for their craftiness in spite of himself. The raiders must have caught a glimpse of the Mandans far to the rear, or else a stray dust cloud or glimmer of sunlight had betrayed the avenging pursuers. In any event, the Sioux had decided they could not hope to outdistance the Mandans when they had so many stolen horses to keep under control. Consequently, rather than risk losing both the horses and their captives, they had divided their band, some of them going on with the stolen herd while the others took the captives by a different route. And because the Mandans had not thought to check the ground any distance from the main trail, they had missed seeing where the Sioux split up.

  All this ran through Nate’s mind as he hurried back to Nash with the mare. Quickly, he explained

  what he had found and his conclusions, then said, “I have to go after them, Eric. If I don’t, they’ll get clean away. There will be no hope for Morning Dew at all. She’ll spend the rest of her life as the mate of a Sioux warrior, and his other wives will likely as not make her life unbearably miserable since she isn’t one of their own kind.”

  Nate hoped, by painting such a bleak picture, that Nash would let him leave immediately without protest. The Englishman’s reaction, though, wasn’t quite what he anticipated.

  Somehow Nash found the strength to stand and shuffle to the mare. “If you go, I go, my dear fellow. This is my chance to redeem myself.”

  “Eric” Nate said.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Nash said. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, and I won’t listen. But I promise you this. If you try to ride off and leave me, I’ll follow. If you take my horse, I’ll walk. If I become too weak, I’ll crawl if need be. One way or the other, though, I’m going after her.”

  Nate knew that Nash wouldn’t last a day on his own. If Nate left, it was tantamount to killing the Englishman. Yet if he took him, Nash would slow him down. He mentioned as much.

  “There’s a simple solution. Tie me to this nag.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for?”

  “Do it.” Eric got both hands on top of the mare, heaved, and pulled himself into the saddle, where he sat rocking from side to side for a few seconds before he was able to hold himself steady. “And be quick about it. From what you told me, they can’t be far ahead of us. We might catch them before sunset.”

  Of all the things Nash could have said, that was the one argument capable of goading Nate into complying. Since Nate believed he could overtake the Sioux swiftly, he reasoned that Eric would not have to endure too much discomfort. And so, against Nate’s better judgment, he lashed Eric’s legs and wrists to the mare.

  Holding both the Hawken and Nash’s rifle, Nate swung onto the gelding, then grasped the mare’s reins. “Hang on tight,” he advised. “If you feel yourself starting to slip over the side, give a yell and I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll hear me in Brighton.”

  “You’ll do better if you lean forward over her neck,” Nate went on. “It won’t be as hard to keep your balance.”

  “Lead on, Hannibal. And don’t spare the elephants.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I swear. Sometimes you make as little sense as McNair.”

  The tracks soon made plain that the Sioux had stuck to the stream for only three miles, after which they had cut to the southeast in a wide loop that would eventually bring them into their own territory. As six of the nine horses were invariably clustered together, Nate surmised that these were the captives, which meant there were three Sioux.

  By late afternoon low hills materialized in the distance, no more than blue-green mounds at first but rapidly growing larger. As the sun was sinking below the crimson western horizon, Nate reined up at the base of the northernmost one and stretched.

  “Why are we stopping?” Eric asked. “Are we close?”

  “I’d say an hour or two behind them.”

  “Then keep going. Don’t stop on my account.”

  “We need to give the horses a breather,” Nate said, a lie because the animals were hardly winded. He was more concerned about his friend, who was having so much trouble staying awake and alert that three times within the last thirty minutes Nate had been forced to stop and rouse him.

  “But we’re so close!”

  “We rest,” Nate insisted with finality. Sliding down, he untied Nash and carefully lowered him to the grass in the shade of a juniper. The Englishman’s brow was still warm, although not as warm as before. Unfortunately, there was no water in their vicinity, and since they had been traveling light they didn’t have any food either.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead?” Eric requested. “Leave my rifle with me and I’ll be fine.”

  “When we go, we go together. Hills like these can be home to lots of bears and panthers and such, and once the sun sinks they’ll be on the prowl. I don’t care to leave you by yourself.”

  “Morning Dew matters more than I do.”

  “We wait,” Nate said, sinking gratefully down and reclining on his back. “And don’t be upset. You’ll see her soon enough.”

  “I will?”

  “Yep.” Nate yawned and stretched. “Unless I miss my guess, those three Sioux will stop for the night. They didn’t get any sleep last night and they must be on their last legs what with not getting a minute’s rest all day.” He grinned. “Come dark, I’ll climb this here hill and have a look-see. They might think they’ve shaken the Mandans, so they’ll feel safe enough to build a small fire. I should be able to spot it.”

  “And then?”

  “We pay them a social call.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be much good in a pinch.”

  “All you’ll have to do is hold the horses. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Eric stared at the frontiersman, trying to find the words that would eloquently express his overwhelming gratitude for all King had done for him, but in his befuddled state the best he could come up with was, “I can never thank you enough.” Then he lapsed into pensive silence.

  The day had been a blur for Eric. Time and again he had lapsed into unconsciousness only to revive minutes later. He had no idea how he had been able to stay on the mare, and feared if he didn’t improve by the next day he wouldn’t be able to ride at all. A good night’s sleep might help, sleep he was unlikely to enjoy if Nate spotted the Sioux camp and they went to rescue Morning Dew and the other Mandan captives.

  Morning Dew. Eric whispered her name, rolling it on the tip of his tongue, relishing every syllable. Who would have thought that he, one of the premier artists in all of England, would lose his heart to a simple Indian maiden who didn’t know an easel from an English setter? Had he gone absolutely balmy?

  No, Eric realized, recalling the delightful thrill he felt whenever he was in her company. He remembered working by her side when the tribe butchered buffalo, and the excitement he’d felt when their arms had not so accidentally brushed together. He recalled the perpetual happiness that enlivened her stride and put an enticing sparkle in her dark eyes.

  At night, while on his buffalo robes in Mano-tope’s lodge, Eric had lain awake thinking of Morning Dew, of the ecstasy that would be his when he could hold her in his arms and tenderly whisper the words he longed to say to her. And he knew she felt the same about him. He’d seen her devastated look when her father refused to let him take her as his wife.

  Well, damn it, he wou
ld! Eric vowed. For years he had wasted his affection on a woman who had regarded him as little more than a highly amusing fop. For years he had accepted that, and fruitlessly pursued his hopeless emotional quest. No more! He’d learned his lesson too well. Only a fool let his heart be pierced time and time again by the pointed barbs of rejected love. Only an utter jackass would tolerate such unfair treatment indefinitely.

  Life was meant for living, not for merely existing in a constant state of remorse or regret. And Eric dearly wanted to live, to walk hand in hand with the woman he adored, to know the unadulterated bliss of being loved body and soul by a vision every bit as lovely as a goddess.

  Eric opened his eyes, then blinked in surprise. He must have dozed off for a while. Nate King was gone, and so was the sun. Twilight shrouded the landscape. Twisting, he saw the trapper working his way up the nearby hill.

  Nate saw the Englishman look his way, and waved. He’d been loath to wake Nash before walking off since the man needed rest so dearly. Eric now waved back, and Nate kept on climbing. The slope wasn’t steep and there was little brush, so he soon reached the crest and stopped beside a ponderosa pine. Before him were more low hills, but not many, all sparsely covered with trees.

  Nate tried to think the way the Sioux did. If he were one of them, what would he do? Make camp in a hollow where the fire couldn’t be seen, would be his guess. He concentrated on the lowland between the hills, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Figuring the Sioux might not have started their campfire yet, he waited patiently while twilight gave way to murky night.

  There was no moon. A multitude of stars twinkled on high, providing feeble light. Nate was disappointed when no telltale glow blossomed anywhere within range of his vision. He stayed put, hoping against hope, yet at last had to concede he had either guessed incorrectly or the Sioux were going without a fire.

  Admitting defeat, Nate had turned to go when he detected a faint gleam to the west, out on the prairie, not among the hills. Swinging around, he saw only darkness, and concluded his eyes had deceived him, until the gleam reappeared for a few seconds before vanishing once again.