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

by Robbins, David

  From out of the shadows flew the lance. Nate started to roll when, in a twinkling, he perceived the lance wasn’t meant for him. It whizzed past and struck somewhere to his rear. A woman screamed shrilly.

  Marshaling his energy, Nate got to one knee and glanced back. The lance had been thrown at Morning Dew. She had burnt the leather cords binding her wrists and ankles and had been about to grab the Hawken when the warrior had seen her and hurled his weapon. It had missed her head by inches and instead speared through the fleshy part of her upper arm, effectively pinning her to the ground. Blood was pouring out. Morning Dew, racked by acute torment, was vainly yanking at the lance, striving to pull it out.

  Nate faced forward. There was nothing he could do for her until he settled accounts with the two remaining Sioux. The horses screened them from his sight, compelling him to ease onto his stomach and crawl along until he could chance a glance up the gully. What he saw alarmed him.

  The two Sioux were gone. Eric Nash was lying on his back on the ramp, a red stain on his head. Evidently he had been struck again, perhaps as he was attempting to stand. For the moment, though, he was safe.

  Which was more than could be said for Nate. He hugged the wall and peered up at the opposite rim. The Sioux had the advantage now; he was outnumbered and they could attack from either side or simultaneously from both. Of the two, the man with the rifle was the bigger threat, but the other one had a knife, if Nate recalled correctly, and could just as readily end Nate’s life.

  Nate knew he had to move, and with the thought came action. Sliding around the rump of the stallion, staying low in the deepest shadows, he hastened past the horses, then crouched against the earth wall. In front of him was the incline. On it Nash was groaning softly. By the fire Morning Dew was slumped over, grimacing. None of the other captives had moved as yet.

  Where the hell were the Sioux? Nate wondered, scouring both rims for any hint of movement. Were they hoping he would go up after them so they could pick him off from the safety of the tall grass? Or were they, as usual, about to resort to some clever strategy, some trick that would take him totally unawares and end the conflict decisively?

  Nate jammed the spent pistol under his belt, drew his tomahawk, and stepped gingerly toward Nash. Out of the corner of his left eye he glimpsed movement, but when he looked at the top of the gully he saw no one. Think, you dunderhead! he shouted in his mind. He had to think the way they would, try to foresee what they would do next before they put it into effect.

  Try as Nate might, no inspiration came. He would have to rely on his instincts and his reflexes. At the incline he paused and turned his head to check on the captives and Morning Dew. As he did, a rifle roared above the west rim and a lead ball slammed into the wall a hairsbreadth from his right ear. He lifted his flintlock, but there was no one to shoot. The Sioux had vanished.

  Dropping into a crouch, Nate took stock. So long as he stayed in the gully, he was at their mercy. They could keep him pinned down indefinitely, and if they waited until daylight, he’d be an easy target. Perhaps his wisest recourse was to take the fight to them, to make a break for the high grass and fight them on their own terms.

  So resolved, Nate turned to scale the ramp. Then an idea hit him. He grinned as he crawled up to Nash and pulled the Englishman down to the relative safety of the gully floor. Constantly scouring the rims, he kept on going, laboriously dragging Nash past the horses. Then rising, he quickly worked his way along the animals, untying each and every one, speaking soothingly to them so they wouldn’t spook until he was good and ready. When he had them all loose, he hurried back to crouch beside the stallion.

  The Mandans, including Morning Dew, were all watching him. Neither of the Sioux had shown themselves, but that might momentarily change. Taking a breath, Nate vented a high-pitched screech while giving the stallion a rough swat.

  In the blink of an eye the nine horses whirled and were thundering up the incline, whinnying in fear as they fled into the night. And right behind them, breathing in the swirls of dust their hoofs raised, was Nate King, racing as if his life depended on it—which it did.

  Nate hoped the ploy would see him safely to the high grass. The Sioux would naturally be watching their horses, which they could ill afford to lose, so they might not spot him until it was too late. He pounded up the incline, dug in his heels, and flew over the crest.

  Some of the horses were cutting to the right, others to the left. From the grass to the south came a harsh cry of rage, which was promptly answered by a shout from the west end of the gully.

  Nate sprinted to the left, his arms and legs churning. He was almost to cover when above the drumming of hoofs he heard the heavy panting of strenuous breathing and the patter of flying moccasins. Too late, he spun.

  The Sioux was on the frontiersman like a battering ram, leaping and plowing his powerful shoulder into Nate’s stomach. Bowled over, Nate went down on his back with the Sioux on top of him. A faint glittering forewarned him a heartbeat before the warrior’s knife arced at his throat, and he jerked his head aside. The blade scraped his cheek and bit into the earth underneath.

  Nate bucked, attempting to throw the brave from him, realizing if he didn’t prevail in the next few seconds the other Sioux would arrive and finish him off. The man clung to him tenaciously and whipped the knife into the air for another swing. Nate’s right arm was pinned to his side, rendering the pistol useless, but his left was still free. He brought the tomahawk up to deflect the knife, then, with a reverse slash, sliced open the Sioux’s throat.

  The warrior clutched at his gushing neck and scrambled backwards.

  Nate got an arm on the ground and shoved erect. His left arm flicked out, the tomahawk cleaving the brave open from shoulder to shoulder, and the Sioux tottered, lost his balance, and fell. Before Nate could close in for the kill a rifle boomed near the gully. There was a wrenching impact in Nate’s forearm and his pistol went flying.

  Glancing down, Nate saw a wicked gash in his buckskin sleeve. He pivoted toward the gully just as the last warrior sprang. The stock of the rifle clipped Nate on the chin, stunning him, and he reeled. A second blow on the temple felled him like a poled ox. On his knees, pain dominating his being, Nate knew he would die unless he did something and did it quickly. But his body was numb, tingling from head to toe. He was totally helpless to resist.

  Nate saw the feral smirk of victory on the Sioux’s face as the brave slowly drew a long knife. The warrior stepped in close, elevated the blade, and said several mocking words in the Sioux language. Then, as the loud retort of a rifle rolled across the prairie, the front of the man’s forehead dissolved in an explosion of gore, brains, and blood.

  Spattered by the grisly rain, Nate blinked in amazement as the Sioux’s eyes fluttered. The warrior went rigid, gasped once, and toppled rearward, and beyond him materialized Eric Nash bathed in a halo of writhing gunsmoke, the smoking Hawken clutched in his hands.

  “Eric?” Nate mumbled. In his benumbed state he couldn’t quite grasp the reality of his deliverance.

  The Englishman advanced. He stared grimly at the two dead braves, then set down the Hawken and picked up the knife of the one he had shot through the head.

  “Eric?” Nate repeated, disturbed by the strange gleam in the artist’s eyes.

  Nash ignored him. Bending over the Sioux, he grabbed the brave’s hair and held the edge of the knife close to the scalp. “Is this how it’s done?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Dear God. Do you know what you’re doing?” Nate responded.

  The Englishman looked up, toward the gully where Morning Dew stood with her wounded arm tucked tight to her bosom, her gaze locked expectantly on the man who wanted more than anything else to share his life with her. I know what I’m gaining,” he answered curtly, and bent to the task.

  Two days later Four Bears, Shakespeare, and the rest of the war party arrived with the stolen horses. They had caught up with the two Sioux driving the small herd off and in a brief
fight slain both men. Upon realizing the rest of the Sioux and the captives were missing, they had retraced their tracks until they reached the stream. There they had found the same trail that had led Nate and Eric eastward.

  Nate had decided to stay at the gully until help came. None of the horses he had driven off returned, and he was unwilling to venture across the open plain when most of his party would have to go on foot and would be easy pickings for any wandering hostiles or roving grizzlies. He’d been confident Four Bears would come eventually, and there being plenty of game and water in the nearby hills, he’d been content to wait and allow Nash time to recover.

  Under Morning Dew’s loving ministrations, the Englishman did just that. In a remarkably short time, no less. For her part, she bore the pain of her wound without complaint. They were mutual balms for their hurting souls, and their unflagging smiles and good cheer were contagious. The rest of the captives had so recovered from their trials by the day after the Sioux were slain that the women were often heard humming or singing and the boys were often playing happily.

  Nate had never seen the like.

  When Four Bears heard of the Englishman’s part in his daughter’s rescue, he impetuously embraced Nash and thanked him profusely. Eric responded by doing that which would most endear him to the great warrior; he gave Four Bears the scalp he’d taken from the Sioux.

  From that moment on, the chief’s attitude toward the Englishman underwent a drastic transformation. Mato-tope asked Nate to inform Nash that once they were back in the Mandan village, Nash was welcome to take Morning Dew for his own if Nash still wanted her. Needless to say, the two young lovers were delirious.

  So was the tribe when the war party returned without having suffered a single casualty, and with all the stolen horses recovered and the captives safe. A great victory celebration was held. For three days and nights the festivities continued, until virtually every man, woman, and child was on the verge of exhaustion. And at the end of those three days Eric Nash and Morning Dew moved into a lodge of their very own.

  There was only one sour note to the whole affair. The first night of the celebration, as the

  Englishman and the maiden were being joined according to Mandan custom, Nate King happened to glance back over the heads of the assembled Indians and spotted Diana Templar standing in the shadows. Her head was bent, her shoulders shaking.

  Nate wasn’t at all surprised when Lady Templar came up to him two days after the marriage and informed him that her brother, Jarvis, and she would be leaving the very next morning, heading down river to Independence on the boat of a Frenchman who periodically visited the Mandans to trade with them. She promised to have the money she had offered Shakespeare and him deposited in a St. Louis bank, and despite their protests she said she would pay them the full amount due and not a farthing less even though she had curtailed their services sooner than anticipated.

  The parting was bittersweet.

  Diana and Winona hugged, and Diana cried. Jarvis was openly sad when it came time to say good-bye to Nate and Shakespeare, but he actually had tears in his eyes when he bid farewell to Zach. Eric Nash came down to the river alone and walked up to Diana, who turned her back on him and stepped onto the boat.

  William Templar, true to form, ignored them all.

  Long after the trader’s boat had disappeared around a bend, Nate and his family stood staring out over the water. Nate had an arm draped over Winona’s shoulders. He kissed her cheek, then glanced at McNair. “Any words of wisdom to impart?” he asked sarcastically.

  The mountain man was equal to the occasion. “All’s well that ends well, I reckon,” he said with a grin.

  Three days later Nate, Winona, Zach, and Shakespeare rode out of the Mandan village on fine horses given to them by Mato-tope. In parfleches were all the provisions they would need to see them clear to the Rocky Mountains. Practically the whole village gathered to see them off, and they promised to come again just as soon as circumstances permitted.

  Nate, out of concern over his wife’s condition, was anxious to reach their cabin as rapidly as possible in order to insure she gave birth in the comfortable surroundings of her own home. The adventures they had along the way, though, prevented them from getting there in time.

  But that is a tale for another day.

  Epilogue and Historical Note

  In the summer of 1837 a devastating smallpox epidemic struck the Mandans. Out of thousands of healthy, happy people, fewer than one hundred were left when the ravaging disease ran its course. The grand chief of the Mandans, Mato-tope, lost his entire family: his wives, all his children—both the small ones and those who were married, and all his grandchildren, every last one. In his remorse he starved himself to death, and his dying words were recorded for posterity: “Four Bears never saw a white man hungry but what he gave him to eat. And how have they repaid it! I do not fear death, but to die with my face rotten, that even the wolves will shrink at seeing me, and say to themselves, ‘That is Four Bears, the friend of the whites.’”

  Authorities were never able to determine exactly how the Mandans were exposed to the disease.

  Three months later there was a mention on the social page of a prominent London newspaper that Lady Diana Templar and Eric Nash, renowned artist, were to be married on Christmas day in St. Paul’s Cathedral.

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