“They went this way,” Allen said. He had climbed down and roved the perimeter of the clearing. Hunkered over a gap between saplings at the southwest border, he pointed at a jumbled trail of human and horse tracks that led into the forest.
“Away from the stockade,” Nate noted, hurrying to the stallion.
“They can’t have gotten far,” Henry Allen said. “You weren’t gone that long.”
“Long enough,” Nate said bitterly. Certainly long enough for the Crows to have had their way with Winona and to have slain her and the children. Lashing the black, he trotted into the trees. The path the Crows had taken widened, allowing him to ride at a gallop. He avoided logs and ducked under low limbs.
At the bottom of a slope the trees thinned even more. Nate climbed swiftly, the stallion’s iron hooves gouging into the soil to keep it from slipping.
The Crows had ridden in single file, one leading Winona’s mare, another Zach’s bay, each of the others a pack animal. Fresh grooves revealed where a packhorse had slipped and nearly gone down.
At the crown, Nate didn’t even pause. He swept up and over and down the other side, a quick glance enough to confirm there was no trace of the warriors up ahead. His heels jabbed hard into the stallion. He feared that at any moment he might stumble on a crumpled, lifeless form. Just thinking about it made him shudder. To lose any of those he cared for so dearly would tear his very soul apart.
Another hill fell behind them, then yet one more. The clever Crows were crossing them on purpose so that on top of each they could check their back trail.
Nate could only pray that he spotted them before they spied him. Odds were that the warriors were more interested in the horses and plunder they had stolen than in Winona and the children. If pressed, the Crows might kill them in order to make good their escape.
Allen had the same notion, for he called out just loud enough to be heard, “Maybe we should find us some cover, Nate. We don’t want anything to happen to your lady and the sprouts before we catch up, do we?”
Nate knew that his friend feared he was letting his dread over their welfare get the better of him. Truth to tell, he was somewhat, or he would have realized their mistake sooner. Angling into pines on his left, he paralleled the trail, only letting it out of his sight for more than a few seconds when he went around trees and thickets and such.
Meanwhile, the sun steadily arced toward the western horizon. Should night descend before Nate and the Tennessean overtook the Crows, there was a very real chance that the Crows would elude them.
The warriors had changed direction and were traveling due south, hugging the hills that flanked the Green River Valley. It occurred to Nate that if they continued on as they were doing for another two to three days, they would be in the very heart of Crow country.
The blazing sun settled on the brink of the earth. The shadows lengthened. Scared to the bone that they would lose their quarry, Nate pushed the stallion as he had never pushed it before. Allen called for him to wait up but he was not about to slow down, not with all that gave his life meaning at stake.
One more hill rose before him. Nate leaned forward to better distribute his weight and make it easier for the stallion to gain the crest. He was all set to plunge down the opposite slope when movement below brought him to a sliding stop.
A broad valley bisected that of the Green River. A tributary wound eastward, looping like an oversize serpent for mile after mile, forming a series of fertile benches separated by belts of trees, primarily cottonwoods. Halfway across were six riders and two packhorses. Second in line was a woman with long raven tresses.
“Winona!” Nate said softly to himself. A glance back revealed that the Tennessean had fallen hundreds of yards behind, and Nate was not about to sit there and wait for Allen to catch up.
Never leaving the sanctuary of the pines, Nate descended rapidly. Once on flat ground, he was hidden from the Crows by the intervening cottonwoods. At a trot he shadowed them, narrowing the gap minute by minute.
The sun was gone when Nate saw them again. They had slowed, and the warrior in the lead seemed to be searching for a spot to stop for the night. Zach’s hands had been bound behind him. Winona’s were free, but her ankles had been looped together under the mare, and she had Evelyn in her lap.
Nate yearned to charge the Crows with his flintlocks blazing. Were it not that his family might be caught in the crossfire, he would have. Swinging wide to the east, he drew within forty yards of the warriors without being discovered.
Under a spreading willow, the lead Crow drew rein. He barked instructions. A husky warrior yanked Zach off the bay and shoved him over by the wide trunk. Winona’s ankles were untied and she was accorded the same rough treatment. When she tried to push the man’s arm aside, she was slapped for her effort.
Nate dismounted. Securing the reins to a low branch, he padded in a wide half circle that brought him up on the willow tree from the rear. The Crows were busy setting up their camp, all except for one man who stared back the way they had come. Going to ground, Nate made like an eel, wending through a maze of high weeds without rustling one.
A few feet from the willow, low voices were audible.
“—a little more work I can slip my hands out, Ma. Then I’ll grab one of our guns those varmints took and—”
“You will do no such thing, Stalking Coyote,” Winona chided, using Zach’s Shoshone name. “Not until I say to.”
“But, Ma—”
“Heed me, son,” Winona said sternly. “Would you have your sister or me suffer because of your impatience? Wait, and when the time is right, we will show these Absarokas that they are no match for Shoshones.”
Nate crawled closer to the tree. He couldn’t see his family, but he did observe a Crow unload a parfleche from one of the packhorses and open it to see what was inside. The man removed a handful of pemmican and stuffed some into his mouth.
Mighty glad the Crows were being so careless, Nate came to the trunk. A low limb six feet overhead invited him to rise, grab hold, and swing up before anyone was the wiser. Keeping the tree between himself and the warriors, he climbed severed feet higher.
Nate clasped the Hawken under his left arm, removed his beaver hat, and inched an eyeball far enough out to see all the Crows. The one still rummaged through packs. Another had just tethered the last of the horses. A third gathered dead wood for a fire, while the last man, the lookout, moved toward a knoll that would give him a better view of the surrounding countryside. Henry Alley had yet to appear.
Taking a gamble, Nate eased out farther and saw those he cared for more than life itself. Winona’s ankles had been retied so that she couldn’t run off. Evelyn dozed on her shoulder. Zach had his back to the tree and was furiously rubbing his wrists back and forth.
Nate was tempted to whisper, to let them know he was there and that all would soon be well. But at that moment the warrior who had taken care of the horses came toward them. Ducking from sight, Nate replaced his hat and gripped the rifle to keep it from falling. The crunch of footsteps neared. A gruff voice addressed Winona in slurred English.
“You cook for us, woman. Give Thunder Heart girl.”
“I will not,” Winona responded.
There was a thud, then the sound of a scuffle and of little Evelyn crying out.
“Leave them be, you polecat!” Zach fumed. “I’ll bust your knees for you!”
Another thud, and the sound of someone striking the tree. Nate wanted to peek out but he was afraid the other Crows would be watching and see him.
The scuffle subsided. “I will do as you say!” Winona declared. “Only do not hit him again!”
“You learn, Shoshone dog,” Thunder Heart growled. “You do as I say or you suffer. All suffer.”
“What manner of man are you that you would harm a child?” Winona demanded.
The taunt was wasted. “Shut mouth. Cook food,” Thunder Heart commanded. “Be quick, or maybe I cut out boy’s tongue to teach you to liste
n.”
Nate heard an armload of branches clatter to the ground and another Crow speak in the Absaroka tongue. Thunder Heart replied in kind. Their tones implied that the other warrior was upset about something and Thunder Heart was annoyed that the man would complain.
The twilight darkened. Nate felt safe in climbing down. He hung from the lowest limb until he stopped swaying, then dropped lightly and pressed flat against the willow.
Several of the Crows were talking. Nate sank to his knees, rolled onto his side, and wriggled to the edge for a look.
Winona was starting a fire. Seated near her, sporting a bloody lip, was Zach. Three of the four Crows were beyond them. The last was seventy feet off on the knoll, barely visible in the encroaching darkness.
Nate’s eyes grew as flinty as steel when he beheld his daughter being held by the Crow named Thunder Heart. The man had her by an arm and half dangled her as if she were a sack of potatoes. Evelyn was gritting her teeth, her features lined with pain.
Winona broke in on their parley. “You are not as smart as you think that you are, Thunder Heart. Soon my man and many other whites will arrive and punish you for stealing us.”
The burly Crow spun. In doing so, he jerked Evelyn as if she were a doll. She moaned and clamped her eyes shut.
“I not warn you again, Shoshone. Your man not find us at night. Two sleeps we be at village. Never see man again.”
Nate fingered a pistol. Tears had formed at the corners of his daughter’s eyes. It tore him apart to see her abused. But if he jumped up and started shooting, he wouldn’t put it past Thunder Heart to use her as a shield.
Unexpectedly, the Crow on the knoll let out with a wavering yip in perfect imitation of a coyote. He bolted toward the camp, speaking urgently as he drew near. Thunder Heart threw Evelyn to the grass, clamped a hand on Winona’s rifle, and stalked forward, flanked by the others. Winona scooped her daughter up.
Nate had no idea what was happening. He couldn’t imagine his friend being to blame. The Tennessean could move like a ghost when the need arose. So Nate was all the more shocked when a rider materialized at the edge of the clearing, and it was none other than Henry Allen.
The Crows halted in midstride. None resorted to a weapon although they were all as tense as wolves facing a riled griz. Thunder Heart raised the rifle to his waist but no higher. He greeted the man from Tennessee in his own language.
Only when the Crow dialect spilled from Allen’s mouth as glibly as if Allen were a Crow born and bred did Nate recollect that Allen had taken a Crow woman for his wife.
The Tennessean had his long Kentucky rifle resting across his saddle. He had also aligned his pistols close to his belt buckle. Jabbing a finger at the Crows, he reverted to English. “I won’t honor your tongue, you skulking devils, by using it. For what you did to me and mine, Thunder Heart, and for what you plan on doing with the wife of Grizzly Killer, I aim to make worm food of you and your pards.”
Thunder Heart took a step to the right and sneered. “How many times we say same words, Cloud Rider? Piegans kill your woman and boy. Not me.”
“You lying sack of manure,” Allen countered. “I didn’t believe you back then, and I sure as hell haven’t changed my mind since.” The Tennessean nudged the dun forward. “Too bad for you that Little Soldier and his bunch aren’t here to back your play. It’s just me and you four vermin.”
Nate rose and eased around the willow. Thanks to Allen, the Crows were not paying any attention to his family. But he fretted that, if a fight broke out, they might be hit before he could get them out of there. Hunched low, he crept closer. Winona and Zach were riveted on the Tennessean and had not noticed him yet.
The Crows began to spread out. One held Zach’s rifle, another a bow. The lookout was armed with a fusee, a trade gun dispensed by the Hudson’s Bay Company for prime plews.
Henry Allen didn’t seem to care that he was outnumbered. It didn’t seem to matter to him that he was riding straight into the jaws of death. Making no move to raise either his Kentucky or a pistol, he spoke in his pronounced Southern drawl.
“You seemed to think that I’d let what you did go. You took it for granted that I’d never try to take revenge. But you were wrong, Thunder Heart. And you, too, Feather Earring. I’ve just been biding my time, knowing that sooner or later I’d get my chance. And here it is.”
Nate was almost to Winona. He had a hunch that Allen was jawing partly to keep the Crows from realizing what he was up to. He knew Allen had seen him, but the Tennessean betrayed no reaction.
“Fetches the Man meant everything to me,” Allen went on. “She was a fine, decent woman who deserved better than to have her brains splattered over the ground by the filthy likes of you, Thunder Heart.”
The Crow did not reply. His countenance was that of a bird of prey about to swoop in for the kill.
“She loved me,” Allen said harshly. “And because I was white, and you hate all white-eyes, you sneaked up on her when she was washing clothes at the river and you bashed her over the head with that bloody rock. Oh, I know you claimed that you were in your lodge, gambling with your pards when she was killed, and I know most of the other Crows took you at your word, but I never did.”
“Like all your kind, you be fool, Cloud Rider,” Thunder Heart spat.
“For falling in love with a Crow woman?” the man from Tennessee retorted. “Or for not seeing sooner that your hatred of whites would cost Fetches The Man her life and the life of our sprout?”
Nate finally reached his wife. Touching her on the shoulder, he pressed a finger to his lips as she started and whirled. Nate drew his Bowie and slashed the three-foot cord linking her ankles.
No words could describe Winona King’s joy. She had been worried that the Crows were right: that it would be dark before Nate discovered they were missing and that the Crows would be far into the mountains before Nate could catch them. Pressing her hand to his to convey her affection, she then lifted Evelyn and backed toward the willow tree.
Zach was just as thrilled to see his pa. Beaming like an idiot, he motioned for his father to cut the cord binding his wrists.
Nate shook his head and motioned for his son to follow Winona. They had to get out of there while they could. The fire crackled noisily. Bathed in its glare, they were ideal targets if any of the Crows turned.
Henry Allen had reined up a dozen feet out but he was still distracting the warriors. “Scum like you don’t deserve to go on breathing, Thunder Heart. You hate for the sake of hating. You kill for the sake of killing. It wouldn’t matter if you were red or white or black or yellow or pink. You’d still be the worthless trash you are. You’re a mad wolf, long overdue to be planted. And I’m just the coon to do it.”
Thunder Heart’s contempt was thick enough to be cut with a razor. “Why your kind talk so much? This day you die, white dog.” So saying, Thunder Heart whipped the rifle to his shoulder.
It was the cue for all the Crows to bring their weapons to bear.
It was also the cue for Henry Allen, whose right hand materialized as if out of thin air in front of him, holding a cocked flintlock. He fired a heartbeat before Thunder Heart, and both men recoiled to the impact of searing lead. Thunder Heart fell to one knee, losing his grip on the rifle. Allen wrenched to one side, then recovered and drew his second pistol.
The other three warriors were about to let fly or stroke a trigger.
Nate would have preferred it if his loved ones were safely behind the willow before the affray commenced, but since it had, he promptly sprang to the Tennessean’s aid by rushing up to the warrior with the fusee, jamming the Hawken’s muzzle against the man’s ribs, and firing at point-blank range.
The Crow jolted forward, sprawling onto his hands and knees. Blood spurted from a cavity in his chest, but still he was able to shift and extended his fusee at Nate.
With the speed of a striking rattler, the mountain man produced a pistol and fired before the Crow could. The ball splatted i
nto the warrior’s forehead above the nose and blew out the rear of his skull in a spectacular scarlet spray.
As the man toppled, Nate turned toward the remaining pair. The Crow holding Winona’s rifle was swiveling toward him, while the one with the bow loosed a shaft at Henry Allen. Nate was unable to see whether it scored or not. He had to dart in close and slam his pistol across the temple of the Crow about to shoot him. The warrior staggered but did not go down, so Nate hit him again.
As the Crow crumpled, nearly senseless, Winona saw the warrior with the bow swing it toward her husband while nocking an arrow. Nate could not possibly evade the shaft. To save him, she did the only thing she could think of: She threw back her head and screeched at the top of her lungs. The bowman, distracted, glanced around at her in that crucial instant before he let go of the arrow.
Nate also started to pivot and awakened to his peril. He leapt, swatting the bow with his Hawken as the Crow zinged the shaft at his belly. The arrow was deflected into the earth between them. Then Nate was on the man, ramming his rifle stock into the warrior’s midsection, doubling the Crow over. He hiked the rifle to deliver the blow that would render the warrior unconscious, but the man was lightning fast and came at him first, a knife glinting dully as it sheared at Nate’s chest.
By happenstance, the Hawken got in the way. The blade scraped the barrel, sending sparks flying. Nate backed up, dropped the rifle, and brought his Bowie into play. The Crow performed a dizzying blend of thrusts and slashes that he barely countered.
Meanwhile, young Zach, his back to the willow, had succeeded in fraying the cord that bound him by rubbing it on the bark. The moment the cord parted, he dashed toward the men who had slapped him and mocked him and made him watch as his mother was treated as if she were garbage.
Winona, guessing his intent, shouted, “Stalking Coyote! No! You do not have a weapon!”
Zach remedied that easily enough. At the fire he bent and seized a burning brand. Brandishing it, he rushed at the Crow his father had smashed with a pistol. The warrior was already rising, shaking his head to clear it. Zach never gave him the opportunity. In three swift bounds, he was close enough to shove the brand into the man’s face.
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