A scream tore from the Crow’s throat as his eyes, nose, and mouth were engulfed in flame. Flailing at the branch, he flung himself backward.
Zach pressed his advantage. Shoving the burning end at the Crow’s eyes, he was more amazed than the warrior when the man’s oily hair caught fire. Like dry grass, it flared brightly.
The Absaroka vented a cry more animal than human and slapped in vain at his head. Throwing himself flat, he attempted to smother the flames by rolling in the grass. To an extent, he was successful, but the effort cost him dearly. Gurgling like a furious bull, he went to stand; but collapsed.
Overjoyed at his victory, Nate turned to see how his father had fared. Nate was flat on his back, the Crow astraddle his chest, his Bowie the only thing that kept the warrior’s long knife from slicing into his neck.
“Pa!” Zach cried.
The Crow suddenly reversed his grip, slid his knife clear, and stroked downward.
Eight
Reflexes are a lot like a knife blade. They can be honed as sharp as steel that can split a hair, or they can be left to atrophy, to waste away to the point where they are next to useless. Any man or woman who has lived in the wilderness for any length of time, who has had to deal daily with wild beasts and other dangers, inevitably develops their reflexes to an amazing degree, to a state equal to that of the beasts with which they must deal.
Nathaniel King was no exception. Years of living in the wild had endowed him with a quickness rivaling that of a mountain lion or bobcat. It was not a conscious effort on his part. He merely thought about doing something and did it simultaneous with the thought.
In this instance, as the Crow reversed his grip on the long hunting knife, Nate reversed his own on the Bowie. As the knife slashed toward him, he slashed the Bowie upward. The blades pinged off one another. The Crow’s was deflected harmlessly aside. The Bowie, however, speared straight up, impaling the warrior in the base of the throat.
Stiffening, the warrior hurled himself back onto his knees and clutched at the hilt. He pulled the Bowie out, took a ragged breath, and swayed as blood spouted from the rupture. Mewing like a kitten, he futilely sought to stem the flow by placing a hand over the hole. The blood squished through his fingers and sprayed from around the edges of his hand.
Nate warily regarded the Crow as he slowly rose. He was taking no chances. On many an occasion, a mortally stricken enemy had rallied and made a final defiant attempt to rub him out.
The Crow, weakening, slumped over, dropping the Bowie. Nate bent to retrieve it. Fortunately, he never took his eyes off the warrior because the man shot up at him with the hunting knife thirsting for a vein. A swift step to the right spared him from the lethal thrust, and once again the Crow pitched forward, this time to lie lifeless, blank eyes fixed on the crackling fire.
Nate spun to check on the other Crows. The one he had shot would never rise again. Another warrior, badly burned about the face and head, was unconscious. Of Thunder Heart there was no sign.
Zach stepped up. “Are you all right, Pa?” he asked. For a moment there it had seemed his father was a goner, and his heart had been in his throat.
“Fine, son,” Nate said, wiping the Bowie on the leggings of a dead Absaroka. He rotated on a heel as Winona ran into his arms, Evelyn gripping her as if for dear life. “How is Blue Flower?” he asked, using their daughter’s Shoshone name.
“Unhurt,” Winona said gratefully. “I saw Thunder Heart run off and wanted to stop him, but Evelyn would not let go of me.”
Zach, hearing a tread behind him, pivoted. “Pa!” he exclaimed at sight of a scarecrow apparition.
It was Henry Allen, uncommonly pale, shuffling toward them with his left hand tucked against a dark stain on his buckskin shirt and a pistol in his right hand. In tremendous pain, he glared about him and growled, “Where is he? Where is that murdering bastard? I vowed to see him made wolf meat, and by God, I will!”
“He got away,” Nate said.
The Tennessean scowled. “Damn his bones! But he can’t have gone far. I’m going after him.”
“Not in your condition, you’re not,” Nate said.
“I have it to do,” Allen insisted. He turned toward his dun. He took no more than a few steps when his legs buckled.
Nate was there to catch him. He steered Allen to a spot by the fire. The lanky frontiersman did not resist. As Allen sat, he mustered a wan grin and said, “I reckon you’re right. It’ll have to wait. But I’ll make him pay. Mark my words.”
“Let me look at that wound,” Nate said.
“Never mind about it. I’ll be fine in no time.”
Winona would hear no more nonsense. “Men!” she snorted, and knelt beside the Tennessean. “Why do you always pretend you are made of stone when you are flesh and bone like everyone else?” Before Allen could stop her, she tugged his shirt high enough to expose the wound. “You must excuse me, Henry. There is only so much silliness a woman will abide.”
Zach was astounded at how his mother treated the trapper. He half expected Allen to give her a piece of his mind, but instead the man smiled.
“Hello, Mrs. King. It’s been a spell, hasn’t it?” The Tennessean coughed self-consciously. “Actually, I’m the one who should be begging your forgiveness. I had no call to use improper language with a lady present. And you’re right. I shouldn’t act the fool. It’s just that—” He had to stop, his voice breaking.
“I am sorry to hear about Fetches The Woman and your son,” Winona said. She had never met the woman, but she had heard about her from Allen on several visits to the cabin. She felt profoundly sorry for the man. She knew how it would devastate her if she were to lose Grizzly Killer, Stalking Coyote, or Blue Flower.
“Thank you,” Allen said huskily.
Winona had always liked the lanky trapper. Unlike some mountaineers, he didn’t look down his nose at Indians and their way of life. One of the few to be friendly with the Absarokas, he had been very much in love with the maiden he took as his wife.
Nate, busy reloading his guns and keeping his eyes skinned for Thunder Heart, wanted to learn more about Fetches The Woman’s death, but he didn’t pry. His friend was upset enough without having to relate the loss.
Young Zach, having reloaded his rifle, nodded at the dun and said, “I’ll fetch his horse. Pa, if you want.”
Nate’s first reaction was to tell the boy that it was too risky with Thunder Heart lurking in the area. But he hesitated, reminded that his son was at an age when Shoshone boys were sometimes allowed to accompany warriors on raids, at an age when most Indians were eager to prove their bravery and count their first coup. His son already had that distinction, so it would be unwarranted of him to deny permission.
“Go ahead,” Nate said, “but stay alert.”
Nodding, Zach scooted toward the horse. It pleased him that his pa was treating him the way he deserved and not like a kid who couldn’t tie a knot without help.
The dun stood with head hung low, the reins snagged in a bush near its front legs. Zach spoke softly in order not to spook it as he reached out. The dun snorted and bobbed its head. Zach assumed he was to blame, but then he saw that the animal was staring into a strip of woodland to the east. He looked, too.
A large shadow detached itself from a tree and was promptly screened by foliage. Zach brought up his Hawken, but the shadow did not reappear. His glimpse had been too fleeting to tell whether it had been the Crow or something else.
Snatching the reins, Zach backed toward his father and mother. “I saw something, Pa. Yonder. Should we go have a look?”
Nate didn’t hesitate. Under no circumstances would he leave his wife and daughter alone. “No.”
Winona was gently probing the furrow left by the lead ball in Henry Allen’s side. She could insert a finger as far as the first joint. It had bled considerably although the shot had missed a vital organ. Allen would be sore for months but he would live. She informed him as much.
“That’s nice
to hear,” the Tennessean said. “I wouldn’t want to go under before I settle accounts with Thunder Heart.”
To dress the wound, Winona needed to stop the bleeding. Asking Allen to hold his shirt up, she sidled to the fire and selected a suitably fiery brand, one long and slender so she could hold it without being burned.
Allen knew what she was going to do. “Hold on a second,” he said, and stuffed the hem of his shirt into his mouth. Clamping his teeth tight, he nodded.
Zachary King’s stomach churned when his mother pressed the brand against the trapper’s side. Dizziness assailed him, and for a few seconds he feared he would embarrass himself by fainting. A sizzling hiss filled the air, along with a peculiar odor.
The man from Tennessee shuddered and gave a tiny grunt. That was all.
Winona lowered the brand. It had seared the flesh, cauterizing the furrow. “We should bandage you.”
“For a tiny scratch like this? That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” Allen said, lowering his shirt. “By morning I’ll be as spry as a jackrabbit.”
A muffled groan caused all of them to turn to the unconscious Crow.
“I’ll deal with him,” Nate said. Collecting the lengths of cords that had been used to tie his wife’s ankles, he bound the warrior’s wrists and feet. The man’s face was charred black in spots, his hair burnt to the scalp here and there. “Do you know this one?” he asked the other trapper.
“His name is Tall Bear,” Allen said. “He never thought much of me and I never thought much of him. Let me load my pistol and I’ll save you the trouble of carting him back.”
“I want him alive,” Nate said.
Tall Bear’s eyes snapped wide. He promptly tried to sit up, discovered he was bound, and glared at his captors. Snarling like a caged bear, he yanked on the cord, but to no effect.
Nate employed sign language. “You will do as we say or you will suffer. Do you understand?”
Incredibly, the Crow snarled louder and pushed himself toward Nate. Bending, he snapped at Nate’s leg, his teeth gnashing shy of their mark.
“You should learn to do as you are told,” Nate signed, and kicked the man full in the face. Tall Bear was flung onto his back, his lips pulped, his mouth welling with blood. To Allen, Nate said, “Let him know that I will only tell him to do something once. Every time he doesn’t listen, I’ll chop off a finger. When I run out, I’ll start in on his toes.”
The lean mountain man did as he was bid. The Absaroka responded, and Allen snickered. “He says that your father was the hind end of a buffalo and your mother mated with snakes.”
Nate kicked the man again, in the gut this time, doubling the warrior over. “Convince him that if he puts his mouth on me again, I’ll stomp his teeth in.”
Apparently this time the warrior believed that Nate was not bluffing. After the Tennessean translated, he lay there as sullen as a lynx with its leg caught in a trap.
“If looks could kill, you’d be a pile of bones,” Allen remarked. “Don’t turn your back on him or he’s liable to try to stomp you to death.”
Zach had been scanning the woods. He was bothered by a persistent feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Tending to shrug it off as just raw nerves, he recollected words of his wisdom his father had once imparted. “Always trust your instincts, son. I can’t count the number of times mine have saved my hide. When they act up, when they tell you that something is wrong even though everything seems just fine, believe them. You’ll live longer that way.”
“Pa,” the boy now said, “I think Thunder Heart is still out there.”
“Probably waiting for us to ride on out so he can jump us,” Allen speculated.
“Then he’ll have a long wait,” Nate said. “We’re not leaving until daylight.”
“What about Ashworth’s supper invite?” Allen asked.
Nate motioned at the star-dotted heavens. “It’s a little late for that. Maybe he’ll treat us to breakfast.”
The Kings and the Tennessean spent the next half hour bedding down. The horses were gathered and picketed close to the fire, which was allowed to blaze high so the glow reached the trees. All weapons were loaded. It was agreed that two of them would stay awake at all times. Only Blue Flower enjoyed uninterrupted slumber.
Winona and Zach kept watch just before daylight. She added wood to the fire and busied herself making coffee so it would be ready when the men woke up.
Zach sat close to the fire. Lulled by its warmth and the quiet that always preceded the dawn, his eyelids grew heavy. Try as he might, he couldn’t stay awake. His chin drooped and he dozed.
When Winona noticed, she grinned. She was more amused than annoyed. Since the sun would rise in another half an hour or so, she let her son sleep. He needed the rest.
Not a minute later, several of the horses lifted their heads and fidgeted, among them Nate’s black stallion. Wary, Winona, stood with her rifle in hand. She made a circuit of the string, surveying the shadows under the trees. Nothing moved, not even a bird. The horses calmed down. Even the stallion cropped grass, no longer concerned.
Convinced that whatever had been out there was gone, Winona turned to finish with the coffee. She took a few steps. Suddenly the black and her mare looked up again just as a whisper of air forewarned her that she had made a grave mistake. An arm as strong as granite encircled her waist, a hand clamped over her mouth. She was lifted bodily and hauled toward the forest.
Winona did not need to see her attacker to know who it was. In her ear hissed Thunder Heart’s voice in broken English.
“Make no sound, Shoshone bitch, or you die!”
Winona still held her rifle but she deliberately released it so the Absaroka would not get his hands on it. He started to lunge to catch the barrel, but evidently decided not to release her and continued to drag her into the trees. Once they were under cover, Winona’s knife was snatched from its sheath and the edge placed roughly against her neck.
“You not move, Shoshone,” Thunder Heart warned.
Winona dared not resist as he relieved her of her pistols, which he wedged under his breech-cloth.
The warrior wasn’t content. He patted her buckskin dress, seeking hidden weapons, and when done, he seized her by the wrist to propel her northward.
“We go now.”
“Go where?” Winona asked much louder than she needed to in the hope her son or one of the men would hear. She never saw the hand that smacked her cheek with such force she was driven to her knees.
“Try again, I cut you from chin to stomach,” Thunder Heart said. To emphasize his point, he entwined his fingers in her hair and shoved her so that she stumbled forward. “Keep mouth closed until I say.”
Through a gap in the trees Winona could see the camp. Zach still dozed; the men were sound asleep. Only Evelyn, snuggled next to Nate, was awake, but she was staring off into the distance with no idea of the fate that had befallen her mother.
The Crow was in a hurry. If she so much as lagged an instant, she was pushed and prodded. Winona did not understand why he was in a rush. Whenever she glanced at him, he wore a sly smile, as if he up were to something that betokened ill for those she cared for most in the world.
The trees ended at the base of a low bluff that merged into the foothills to the northeast. Thunder Heart jabbed Winona with the knife. A gesture indicated she should bear eastward. In forty yards they came to a deer trail that wound to the top. Again the Crow jabbed her. This time he wanted her to go up. His crafty smile broadened.
Winona did as he demanded. By this time a golden celestial crown framed the horizon. She knew that Nate would be up; he always woke up before first light, a habit born of his many months spent working trap lines, when it was essential that the traps be checked first thing every morning.
Presently they climbed above treetop level and Winona sought a glimpse of her family. Pinpointing the willow, she saw them scurrying about the clearing. They were seeking sign and soon would be on her trail. It wouldn’t b
e long before she was rescued.
“Go faster!” the Absaroka growled. “We must be ready.”
Ready for what? Winona wondered. Then she had to devote all her attention to the last leg of their ascent. A steep incline, nearly sheer in parts. Scaling it taxed her ability. Frequently she had to dig in her fingers and toes and cling to the side of the bluff with nothing to stop her from falling to her death if she lost her grip.
Thunder Heart glanced repeatedly into the trees. He grew more and more impatient with her. If she slowed a shade too much to suit him, he pricked her with the knife. Twice he drew drops of blood from her leg, once from her arm.
Finally, every muscle in her arms sore, her shoulders aching terribly, Winona reached the summit. Broad and flat, it was covered with brush, mostly sage.
“That way!” Thunder Heart barked, pushing her toward the west end.
For the life of her, Winona still could not guess what he was up to. She doubted he would attempt to ambush Nate and Allen, not when he had pistols and they had rifles. The outcome would be a foregone conclusion.
It occurred to Winona that the Absaroka might shove large boulders down on the others, but when they came to the spot that suited him, only rocks the size of melons were handy. Hardly a threat.
The Crow grasped her wrist and twisted it. “Sit!” he directed, nodding at a flat rock a few yards back from the edge. After she complied, he paced, smacking the flat of the blade against one palm.
Winona plotted to add to his nervousness. “You will die, you know. My husband is Grizzly Killer. He has counted more coup than any ten Absarokas.”
Thunder Heart sniffed as if at a foul odor. “You man is white. Whites are weak. I kill him as I have others.”
This was news to Winona. Adopting a casual air, she probed, “You have rubbed out other trappers? Henry Allen never mentioned it.”
“Would I tell him?” Thunder Heart said. “Many times we find trappers alone. Many times we kill and take all they have.”
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