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

by Robbins, David

  Nate estimated the light, whatever it was, had to be less than a quarter of a mile from the hills. He watched until the gleam flared a third time, then he turned and trotted down the slope to the juniper.

  Eric Nash was sitting up, his back to the trunk. “What’s your hurry?” he inquired. “Did you spot their fire?”

  “I’m not rightly sure. Are you up to a short ride?”

  “Definitely. And this time don’t tie me.”

  Rather than approach the spot directly, Nate took a roundabout course, meandering along the base of the hills until he was southeast of the strange light. By then he could no longer see it, not even the intermittent gleam, which didn’t bother him any. He’d been able to pinpoint its approximate location from the top of the hill, and like all competent mountain men had acquired an unerring sense of direction.

  Nate rode slowly, wishing he had a robe or a blanket or buckskin he could wrap around the hoofs of the horses to muffle the dull thud of their heavy hoofs. To be safe, he stopped well short of where the gleam had originated, climbed down, and handed the gelding’s reins to Nash. “I’ll go on afoot. Will you be all right by yourself?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just save her,” Eric replied.

  “I have to worry. What if you pass out again and these horses wander off? I might need to leave in a hurry, and I’d look plumb ridiculous running around in the dark like a chicken with its head chopped off trying to find you.”

  “I’ll be here,” Eric assured him.

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Nate said, and melted into the shadowy landscape, bent at the waist as he glided to the northeast. The prairie was level, the grass no higher than usual; there was no place at all for the Sioux to be hiding. He entertained doubts about what he had seen, and several times he halted, about to go back, but something drew him on.

  Eventually Nate stopped for the last time. He’d gone much farther than he thought he should have to, yet found nothing. Sighing, he started to turn back, then froze when he detected the acrid scent of smoke. Sniffing, turning right and left, he isolated the direction the smoke was coming from, and advanced accordingly.

  Nate’s puzzlement grew the farther he went. Granted, the black night prevented him from seeing more than a dozen yards ahead, and that none too clearly, but all he could see now was more of the same: an unending sea of grass. Where the devil were the Sioux?

  Suddenly the breeze bore to Nate’s straining ears the muted sound of voices. Instantly he crouched, his Hawken at the ready, but there were no targets to shoot. He cautiously moved on, placing each sole down softly so as not to crackle the grass underfoot. A few seconds later he saw the glow.

  It was at ground level, in the middle of a clear tract, and extended for fifteen feet in either direction.

  Nate flattened and used his elbows and knees for traction as he wriggled nearer. The voices were more distinct, those of several men speaking quietly in the Sioux tongue, a musical language he knew little of but had heard sometime back when he’d befriended an outcast Sioux warrior named Red Hawk. He went a foot further and stopped in astonishment.

  A thin spiral of gray smoke was rising out of the ground itself.

  Completely baffled, Nate edged closer. He heard a horse whinny, then a loud snap, like the breaking of a branch. The grass ended and the clear tract was in front of him. Only it wasn’t a clear tract, after all, but simply a clear space bordering a deep gully.

  Now Nate understood, and he smiled. The devious Sioux had done it again. By camping in the gully they’d practically insured they wouldn’t be discovered. It had been a fluke that Nate had noticed the glow of their fire from the top of the hill.

  There were additional snapping sounds, and they masked whatever slight noise Nate made as he snaked to the rim of the gully, removed his beaver hat, and peered over the side. The gully was wide enough at the bottom for two horses to stand nose to tail. Directly below was the campfire, a warrior kneeling beside it, feeding the dancing flames with branches that must have been gathered in the adjacent hills. Two other Sioux sat close at hand. To the right were the horses, all nine, tethered so they couldn’t stray. To the left of the fire sat the captives, four women including Morning Dew, and two boys. All six were securely trussed at the ankles and the wrists. The women sat proudly, their postures radiating defiance, and of them all Morning Dew was the most defiant. Her chin jutted out, her eyes flashed her scorn for her captors. The boys were huddled quietly together, dejected and submissive. Both bore bruises and welts on their faces, which explained why.

  Nate saw that one of the Sioux men carried a rifle, another had a bow resting near his leg, and the man feeding the fire had a lance that was lying behind him. Nate might, if he was extraordinarily lucky, drop all three before they could bring their weapons to bear. But if he missed, or if he only wounded one or two of them, the results could prove disastrous for the captives. The boys, in particular, might be killed before he could get down there to prevent the atrocity.

  Nate hoped that Morning Dew would glance up and see him so he could use sign language to instruct her to cause a diversion. If the Sioux could be distracted, for just a few moments, it would be all the advantage he needed. But she continued to glare her hatred, oblivious to his presence.

  Absorbed in pondering the best strategy to employ, Nate almost missed hearing the stealthy movement to his rear. When he did, his first thought was that he had miscalculated and there were four Sioux, not three.

  Since any rash movements might alert the warriors in the gully and cause the man behind him to attack, Nate casually eased his right hand to his side and clutched the Hawken. Girding himself, he waited until he felt certain the person stalking him was no more than six or seven feet away. Then, in a fluid roll, he flipped onto his back and leveled the rifle.

  Eric Nash was taken totally unawares. He recoiled and held up both hands. “Don’t shoot!” he whispered.

  Nate was flabbergasted that the Englishman had left their horses alone to follow him. But he had no time to dwell on Nash’s blunder, for from out of the gully rose a sharp, questioning voice. Swiftly, he crawled to Nash, hooked a hand under the man’s arm, and hauled him into the grass. Dropping flat, he held Nash down.

  “I—” Eric croaked.

  “Quiet, damn you!” Nate hissed, and pointed at the gully.

  Emerging from the east end, up a gradual incline, were two of the three Sioux, the man with the rifle and the one with the bow. They were back to back, probing the night. At the top they separated, the rifleman going to the left, the bowman to the right.

  Nate prayed the grass hid Nash and him from their view. He glanced at the spot where he had been perched on the rim and swore his heart missed a beat. Lying there at the very edge was his beaver hat!

  The bowman was on the near side of the gully, but he had his back to the rim and so far was ignorant of the hat. An arrow already notched and the sinew string pulled partway back, he padded along scanning the grass until he was parallel with the hat. Then he paused.

  Nate’s skin prickled as if he had a rash. He held his breath, waiting to see if the bowman would turn or whether the rifleman on the other side would see his headgear. His right thumb rested on the Hawken’s hammer, his forefinger on the trigger. Should they see the hat, he had to bring them both down as quickly as possible and dash to the gully to keep the last Sioux from wreaking mayhem among the captives.

  The rifleman spoke a few words and the bowman responded curtly. By their attitude they were not completely sure they had heard something unusual. The warrior on the far side had also stopped to scrutinize the plain. Neither was paying any attention—yet—to the rim.

  Nate was tense until both men moved slowly back toward the east end of the gully. Neither had observed any cause for alarm, and the beaver hat, shrouded in shadow as it was, had escaped detection. The warriors joked and laughed as they descended into their hideaway, apparently making light of their own nervousness.

  When the
y were gone, Eric Nash shifted to stare at the frontiersman. “I’m bloody sorry,” he whispered.

  “You should be.”

  “I had to know if you’d found her,” Eric said.

  “So you risked her life and mine? If those Sioux find out we’re up here, they might kill her and the rest of their captives for the hell of it.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We do nothing,” Nate whispered. “You are going to the horses and wait there until I come back.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Forget it.”

  “There must be something I can do,” Eric pleaded.

  Nate, about to give the Englishman a piece of his mind, paused. Nash could be helpful in creating a diversion, but Nate was afraid he’d botch the task.

  Eric noticed the trapper’s hesitation and declared softly, “I’ll do anything if it means freeing her. You tell me, and I’ll follow your directions to the letter. Please, Nate. I want to have a hand in it.”

  Even though Nate had no other recourse, he balked. Nash was in no shape for a fight; if something went wrong, he could wind up a casualty. Nate tried to think of another way, of any means of saving the captives without the Englishman’s assistance, and couldn’t. Frustrated, he glanced around. “You give me your word you’ll do exactly as I say?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I’d rather not,” Nate muttered, rising to his knees. “Lay low while I check on our friends.” Head down, Hawken extended, he worked his silent way to the rim once more. The Sioux were conversing again, which was reassuring. He lowered himself onto his stomach, then inched to the edge.

  The prisoners and the horses were where they had been. All three Sioux were seated at the bottom, their backs to the opposite wall.

  Nate glanced westward. There the gully terminated in a sheer drop of ten or twelve feet. The Sioux wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come at them from that direction, so it gave him a way of taking them by surprise provided their attention could be drawn elsewhere for the few crucial seconds he would need to leap to the bottom.

  Sliding rearward, Nate put on his hat and crept back to Eric Nash. “I have a plan,” he announced in a low whisper. “It won’t put you in any danger if you do as I say.”

  “Why do you keep harping on that point?”

  “Because I know you, Eric.”

  The Englishman smiled. “Point taken. Now let me hear my part in this scheme of yours.”

  Rapidly, Nate outlined the tactic he wanted to use, and when he was satisfied that Nash fully understood, he moved furtively to the west end of the gully. Once he was on his stomach above the sheer drop, he glanced toward the high grass, waiting for Eric to do his part. All Nash had to do was shout a few times, which should lure at least two of the warriors up the dirt ramp to the top of the east end of the gully, in turn enabling Nate to reach the bottom and dispatch the man who was left before they could intervene. Nate would then be between them and the captives.

  That was all Nash had to do. He was supposed to wait until Nate was in position and start shouting. But a minute went by and the only sound outside the confines of the gully was the wind whipping the grass. Nate glanced impatiently at Nash’s hiding place, but saw no movement whatsoever.

  Simmering with anger, Nate braced his hands on the soil, and was going to ease away from the edge so he could check on the Englishman when he finally spotted Nash, not where Nash should be, but upright and within a few yards of the east end of the earthen ramp. The instant Nate laid eyes on him, Nash raised both empty hands on high and—of all things—commenced singing.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  If Nate was shocked, the Sioux were astounded. They leaped to their feet and trained their weapons on the white man who had so miraculously appeared above them; then they hesitated, bewildered because he made no threatening moves and indeed appeared to be unarmed. The warrior holding the rifle was the first to break the spell transfixing them, and with a yip he bounded up the incline toward the Englishman. On his heels came both of the others.

  This was not what Nate had wanted. He’d hoped to slay one of them before they knew he was there. Nash’s harebrained stunt had recklessly jeopardized them both. But Nate had to stick to the original plan.

  Coiling both legs under him, Nate balanced on his heels, tensed, and jumped, vaulting over the rim. He hurtled downward, the wind briefly fanning his hair. Then he landed, his legs bearing the brunt of the impact, jarring him to the bone, and his momentum swept him into a roll.

  Rising into a crouch, Nate saw the three warriors had reached Nash and the Sioux with the lance had grabbed Nash’s arm with one hand and touched the tip of the lance against Nash’s throat with the other. Nate raised the Hawken to fire, but unexpectedly one of the Mandan women lurched awkwardly to her feet directly in his line of fire and hopped toward the crackling flames.

  It was Morning Dew. Unlike the other Mandans, who had twisted at the thud of Nate’s landing to see what had caused the noise, she was intent on reaching the fire, apparently so she could burn through the ropes that bound her and go to Nash’s aid.

  Fearing for the Englishman’s life, Nate surged erect and dashed forward, past the other women and the boys. Morning Dew had reached the fire and dropped to her knees, giving him a clear shot at last. Only he couldn’t shoot.

  The Sioux had spotted him, and now not only was the warrior with the lance holding the weapon against Eric’s throat, but the brave holding the rifle had cocked his piece and pressed the muzzle against Eric’s temple. The third Sioux barked words at Nate while gesturing angrily at the artist.

  Their meaning was plain. Either Nate did as they wanted, or they would slay Nash on the spot. Nate had the Hawken tucked to his shoulder, but he slowly lowered it a few inches, waiting for their next move.

  The warrior with the bow motioned for the Hawken to be cast aside.

  Nate wavered. If they disarmed him, he didn’t stand a chance. Yet if he resisted, Nash would certainly die. The bowman motioned again, sharply, and his point was accented by the brave bearing the lance, who suddenly gouged the razor tip of his weapon into the Englishman’s flesh deep enough to draw blood. Scowling in suppressed fury, Nate bent at the knees and placed the Hawken down. Then he advanced two strides and raised his hands high above his head to show them he would not give them any trouble.

  There was a method to Nate’s bold move. He was taking a calculated gamble, and if it paid off he might, just might, be able to turn the tables on the three braves.

  By taking the two long strides, Nate had positioned himself well past the fire, near the horses and between the Sioux and Morning Dew. Should she succeed in freeing herself, the Hawken was within her reach. He could only hope she knew how to use it.

  The strides had also put the front of Nate’s body in shadow. From where the Sioux stood, they couldn’t possibly see the pistols at his waist until they were much closer. And once they were that close, he’d bring both flintlocks to bear. But had they seen the pistols when he’d first appeared? Or had their attention been so focused on Nash and the Hawken that they had overlooked them? The answer was vital to his survival.

  The bowman came partway down the dirt ramp, halted, and addressed Nate in sign language. “Move back to the fire, white dog!”

  Taking another gamble, Nate stood stock still. He was hoping the Sioux would think he didn’t know sign and come nearer to make him comply. Taking a breath, he said in English, “I don’t savvy. Do you know how to palaver in the white man’s tongue?”

  The warrior with the rifle said something in Sioux and his two companions laughed. Then he unexpectedly gave Nash a brutal shove, sending the Englishman sprawling down the incline. Nash hit hard and lay in the dirt, dazed.

  Nate still didn’t move. He dared not make his play until the Sioux were all lower. The bowman suddenly lifted his bow, trained his shaft on Nate’s chest, and came warily forward. Soon he would be near enough to distinguish the pistols. Yet the other two we
re still near the top of the gully.

  Glancing up at them, Nate declared insolently, “What’s the matter with you cowards? Are you afraid to tangle with a man who isn’t half dead already?”

  The Sioux had no idea what had been said, but the insulting tone was transparent. Both the brave carrying the rifle and his friend with the lance headed downward, their resentment quickening their pace.

  The moment of truth was almost at hand. Nate relaxed his shoulders muscles, knowing if he was too tense he might make a mistake. The bowman was now within ten feet of where he stood, the arrow still fixed on his sternum. Nate’s eyes flicked to the right, at the row of horses, at the one not a yard away. It was a Sioux war horse, as the symbols painted on its shoulders and flanks indicated. And the Sioux, like the men of nearly every other tribe on the Plains, valued their war horses above all else.

  Nate let the bowman take two more steps. He let the pair on the ramp get within a foot or so of Nash. Then, in a blur of speed, he threw himself to the right, behind the war horse, as his hands flashed to the pistols and streaked them out. He was counting on the bowman not letting the arrow fly when there was a risk of hitting the war horse, and his hunch proved right.

  The warrior had snapped the bow around, about to release his shaft at the very moment Nate dropped from sight. On seeing the war horse he had checked the impulse, and now was darting along the opposite wall, the bow held in front of him, seeking a target.

  Nate had to kill the bowman swiftly, before the others reached the bottom. Twisting, he peered between the prancing legs of the nervous stallion and saw the bowman’s midriff and leggings. Nate’s right arm shot out, he cocked the flintlock, and when the Sioux was almost even with the horse, he fired. He saw the bowman double over, and then a hammer seemed to crash against his skull and he was flung backwards, landing on his back with his senses swimming.

  Belatedly, Nate realized the stallion, startled by the blast and the smoke, had kicked him. He fought the black wave trying to swamp his consciousness and rose to his elbows. Through a swirling fog he could see the bowman lying in the dust in a widening pool of blood. Nate’s mind shrieked at him to stand. The other two were bound to be on him any instant.