Taking the New Yorker seriously, Nate said, “If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have any women or kids along. But it’s too late to send them packing.”
“Where’s the equality in that?” Ashworth said. Aren’t you saying the women can’t hold their own? That they’re inferior to all you trappers?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Nate said. “The omen shouldn’t be here because the Blackfeet don’t hesitate to wipe them out along with the men. And the men won’t be able to put up a good fight if they’re worried about their women.”
Ashworth, rankled at being made to submit to conditions fit only for primitives, groused, You’re assuming that the Blackfeet will find us, of course. Which they won’t. The route I’ve plotted will see us safely into their territory and out gain.”
Nate was not going to bandy words. He was content to remark, “On a map, all routes look safe.” He let it go at that for the time being.
Two more days went by. The expedition headed northwest across Bridger Basin, as the mountaineers called it, to the foothills of the Wyoming Range, which they hugged as they traveled north ward. They never ventured too far out onto the plain, where they would be exposed to hostiles nor did they cross arid tracts where they were li able to raise dust clouds that could be seen for miles.
Nate was kept busy every minute. Before firs light he was up to see that the cook fires were lit and pots of coffee brewed. The stock had to be watered and counted. Scouts had to be sent out. Then the expedition would get under way, the women and children at the center where they could be protected.
Until noon the column would wend along through the rolling hills, stopping at whatever source of water happened to be convenient whether a spring or a stream. Half an hour of res was all they were allowed. Jerky and pemmican sufficed to fill the empty bellies of those who couldn’t wait until evening.
During the afternoons, Nate always pushed their animals to cover as much ground as possible before sunset. Twilight would find them in camp the horses being bedded down, the women and few trappers at the cook pots, married men erecting lean-tos for some privacy.
A third day came and almost went. Nate mad it a point to rove the line from front to rear seven times a day. They weren’t in Blackfoot country yet, but the Blackfeet were known to roam far afield.
On this occasion, Nate had just left the horse herd and was riding back to check on the rear guard. His son and the Tennessean were along.
Zach had a question he was burning to ask. “Pa?” he began. “Do you really think we can get out of Blackfoot land without having our hair lifted?”
“We’ll try our best,” Nate said, rising in the stirrups to scour the woods for the men supposed to be dogging their steps.
“But will that be good enough?” Zach gnawed on his lower lip. “I heard some of the men jawing last night. They seem to think none of us will see the Green River again. But they came anyway. They say it’s the last chance they’ll ever have to raise enough beaver to fill their pokes.”
Henry Allen swiveled. “Shucks, son, most of us feel the same way. It’s nothing to fret about. If anyone can get us through this, it’s your pa.”
Zach had every confidence in his father. But the talk he’d overheard had upset him intensely. He’d been so thrilled to join a fur brigade that he hadn’t given the threat posed by the Blackfeet much thought. Now he knew why his pa had balked at taking the job.
Nate rose in the saddle again. His orders called for six mountain men to ride one hundred yards behind the horse herd at all times. Yet there was no sign of them. “Something is wrong,” he announced, jabbing his heels into the stallion.
Holding the Hawken across his waist, Nate hunted for sign. It wasn’t hard to find. Hoofprints revealed the six men had wheeled their mounts and trotted off to the south for some reason. He did likewise, but only at a brisk walk to avoid riding into an ambush.
“Yonder they are,” Henry Allen declared, pointing.
Coming through the pines were the six buckskin-clad trappers. In their lead was a lean man known as Wild Tom for his habit of getting so drunk at the rendezvous that he made a spectacle of himself. Seldom did he remember his antics, either. The man hollered and angled to meet them.
“What drew you off?” Nate inquired.
“Injuns,” Wild Tom answered. “Jud spotted four of them on that crest.” His rifle extended toward an adjacent ridge. “We went for a look but they had lit a shuck by the time we got there.”
“Tracks tell you anything?”
“Unshod horses is all,” Wild Tom said. “They were too far off for us to tell which tribe. Could have been Flatheads or Shoshones.”
Nate doubted it. The Shoshones and the Flatheads were the two friendliest tribes in the Rockies. Warriors from either tribe who spotted the expedition were bound to ride on down for a parley and to smoke a pipe. The fact that the Indians had sped off before the rear guard could reach them did not bode well.
“Keep your eyes skinned,” Nate advised. “I doubt they had our best interests at heart.”
“Maybe so,” Wild Tom allowed, “but at least we know they weren’t Blackfeet.”
The horses were the reason. Although practically every other tribe from Canada to Mexico relied heavily on the four-legged critters introduced by the Spanish, the Blackfeet still liked to go on raids on foot, just as their fathers had done, and their fathers” fathers before them.
“The Dakotas roam this far west,” Nate noted.
“Or it might have been Utes,” suggested one of the mountaineers beside Wild Tom. His idea was greeted with a few guffaws.
“Utes never come this far north,” another man stated. “Don’t you know anything?”
Henry Allen had the final say. “Which tribe doesn’t matter if they’re hostile. One knife is as good as another when it comes to scalping a man.”
The group made for the horse herd. By the position of the sun, Nate calculated they had an hour of travel time left. He left the rear guard, skirted the herd to keep from swallowing enough dust to choke a moose, and came abreast of the knot of women.
Winona was one of those in the lead, Blue Flower nestled in a cradleboard on her back. Her daughter had grown so much in recent months that in another few weeks Winona would have to wean her of the habit. As comfortable as the cradleboard was, at the end of each day her shoulders ached terribly.
Spying her husband approaching, Winona smiled and slowed so he could pull alongside her mare. She winked at Zach, who scrunched up his nose at his sister. “Three days and all is well,” Winona remarked.
“Maybe not for long,” Nate said. He related the latest news, adding, “Spread the word among the women. They’re not to wander off alone after we make camp. Have them go everywhere in pairs, even into the bushes. And make sure they carry rifles. There are plenty to go around, thanks to Ashworth.”
“Did you hear what he did last night?” Winona asked.
Nate shook his head.
“Clay Basket took him his supper. She had made stew from a deer her man had killed. Ashworth turned up his nose when she put it in front of him.”
“Typical greenhorn.”
“I am not finished, husband.” Winona chuckled. “He ate three helpings and six of her biscuits.”
“You don’t say?” Nate said. “Maybe he’s not hopeless, after all.” Twisting, he surveyed the ridge and the towering mountains beyond, bothered by the sensation of unseen eyes watching their every move.
“Is something wrong?” Winona probed. After a dozen years of being by her man’s side day in and day out, she was sensitive to his every innermost feeling.
“A case of bad nerves maybe,” Nate said.
Winona doubted it. He wasn’t the type to jump at shadows, at anything else.
The hour passed quickly. Between two hills that served as the gateway to a wide canyon, Nate called a halt. The horse herd was ushered into the canyon for safekeeping until dawn. Little forage was available, but Nate wou
ld rather have the animals hungry than missing. He directed that extra sentries be posted, and that at least four fires be kept lit all night.
Richard Ashworth observed all this while seated on a log in front of his tent. Munching on a piece of pemmican given him by one of the squaws, he reflected that he was glad King had come along. The man had proven invaluable in so many respects, among them a knack for getting the trappers to do work long and hard without complaining.
Ashworth went to take another bite, then saw his watchdog giving King what could only be described as the evil eye. “Don’t you dare, Emilio,” Ashworth said. “You’re not to lay a finger on him. Ever.”
The giant didn’t answer. Emilio had promised himself that before the expedition was over, he would show the big mountain man why he was the most feared member of La Cosa Nostra in all of Little Italy. No one put a hand on him and lived to tell of it. No one at all.
Nate came toward them. Ordinarily he would have ignored the swarthy giant, but after three days of being glared at, he wasn’t in the mood. Walking right up to Emilio, he said, “I don’t like how you stare at me all the time, mister. If you have something on your mind, speak your piece.”
Ashworth was on his feet and between them before Barzini could reply. “Now, now, Nate,” he said casually. “I realize there has been some bad blood between the two of you, but let’s put it behind us, shall we? We’re all on the same side.”
“Tell that to him,” Nate said.
“Emilio means you no harm,” Ashworth declared, and he nudged the hulking brute, trying to prompt him into confirming it. The giant stayed silent.
“I have enough to keep me busy without having to worry about him slipping up on me when I least expect it,” Nate said. He was inclined to goad the man into a fight then and there to settle matters.
“I give you my word that he won’t,” Ashworth said, even though he suspected that given the opportunity, Emilio just might. The man broke bones and killed people for a living; he was not about to adhere to any rules of proper conduct.
“Maybe it would help if you were to give him some work to do so he doesn’t stand around staring at folks all damn day,” Nate mentioned.
“He already has a job.”
“You could have fooled me. All he ever does is follow you around.”
“Believe it or not, that’s what he is supposed to do,” Ashworth said. “Emilio is here to guarantee that the money invested in our expedition isn’t wasted.”
Nate’s curiosity was piqued, but before he could learn more, a strident sound brought the entire camp to a standstill. It was the piercing scream of a woman.
Twelve
Nate King was in motion before the last wavering note of mortal terror died on the wind. It had come from the northwest, where dense forest bordered the encampment. His Hawken clutched in his left hand, he sprinted in that direction. Hardly had he gone twenty yards when he was joined by Henry Allen and a knot of somber trappers.
Every person in camp had stopped whatever they were doing to stare into the dark woods. Mothers were .gathering children. Men gathered weapons.
Nate saw his son racing toward him and stopped the boy cold with a shake of his head. “Find your ma and sister,” he hollered. “Stay with them until I get back.”
Zach was too disappointed for words. If there were hostile Indians about, he wanted to be in the thick of things. It was the dream of all Shoshone boys his age to one day be great warriors, and the only way to do that was by counting coup in battle. But he obeyed his pa without hesitation. He knew his father was counting on him to safeguard his mother and sister, and he wouldn’t let his pa down.
Nate spied a grizzled mountaineer who was on sentry duty crouched at the edge of the woods. At the same moment, the man spotted him and beckoned urgently. Jogging over, Nate sank to one knee. “See anything, Weiss?”
“Two women with baskets left a short while ago,” the man revealed in his heavy German accent. He jabbed his rifle at a ravine barely visible through the trees. “They went that way to get roots, I think.” Weiss shuddered. “That scream! May I never hear its like again!”
More mountaineers were converging at a brisk clip. Nate picked Henry Allen and four other dependable men to accompany him. To Clive Jenks, he said, “Double the guard on the camp and the stock. Have everyone stand by their guns until you hear from us.”
“What if you don’t make it back?” Jenks wanted to know.
“Then you get promoted,” Nate said. He didn’t mean the remark to be humorous, which was just as well, since no one cracked a smile. Nate rose to hasten off.
“Hold on, King. I’m coming with you.”
None of the mountain men had noticed when Richard Ashworth and his gigantic shadow arrived on the scene. Threading through the group, Ashworth proudly clasped the heavy Hawken he had purchased in St. Louis and announced, “As leader of this expedition, I am responsible for all your lives. If there are dangers to be confronted, then I must confront them. Lead on, my good fellow. I’ll be right behind you.”
Nate hesitated. The New Yorker had no business tagging along; it might get him killed. But there was no time to waste debating the point, so Nate merely nodded once and sped into the brush. A carpet of pine needles enabled him to move as silently as a specter. The other mountaineers did the same. To his mild surprise, Emilio Barzini was equally skilled at moving stealthily. For one so huge, the Sicilian was amazingly swift. Only one of them was making any noise.
Ashworth noticed King shoot him a sour look and wondered why. Seconds later he stepped on a dry twig and several of the other men gave him the same kind of look.
Realizing that he was not being quiet enough, Ashworth slowed. He scoured the ground closely and avoided dry twigs and leaves. For several yards he made no sound whatsoever. Pleased with himself, he glanced up to see if the rest had noticed how well he was doing and discovered that he had fallen at least twenty feet behind. He hurried to catch up.
Nate was skirting a thicket when the crack of another twig to his rear caused his temper to flare. Ashworth’s intentions were honorable, but the man was a bumbling simpleton when it came to stealth. Whatever had attacked the women, whether man or beast, was bound to know they were coming.
The mouth of the ravine appeared. Nate raised a hand and instantly Allen and the rest of the mountaineers halted. Even Emilio Barzini. Only Ashworth took a few more strides before noticing and stopping.
Hunched low, Nate soon found the tracks of the two women. They had been walking side by side, probably chatting, paying scant heed to the woods around them. They should have known better.
The tracks disclosed that one had been a Flathead, the other a Nez Perce. Nate tried to recollect who among the mountaineers were hitched to women from those tribes as he padded on into the ravine. It would have been better to hug either wall in order to avoid the thick brush, but he stayed right on their trail to find them that much sooner.
Their steps meandered from bush to bush. Nate found where the Nez Perce had dug a hole to extract a few roots. Farther on, they had stopped. Both sets of toes had turned toward the right, as if they both had heard something and pivoted to see what it might be. Apparently, they had not been alarmed. Both had gone on, wending among boulders and clusters of plant growth.
A bend in the ravine hid whatever lay beyond. Nate motioned for the those behind him to exercise even greater caution. The Tennessean came forward and glued himself to Nate’s elbow. Together they crept to the turn. Raising their rifles, they peeked around.
Ever since hearing the scream, Nate had feared the worst. He had witnessed so many atrocities over the years that he had come to regard them as part of the normal course of life in the Rockies. So he was inwardly prepared for whatever they might find. Or so he thought.
“Dear God!” Allen breathed.
Nate’s stomach roiled. Bile rose in his throat but he swallowed it. His mouth suddenly went bone dry as he slid warily forward.
It
was the Flathead. She had been quite lovely in life, with a healthy bronzed complexion and hair almost as long as Winona’s. In death she was starkly pale, her tresses disheveled.
Part of her paleness could be blamed on the loss of blood. Someone had slit her throat from ear to ear and a large scarlet puddle framed her shoulders and head.
But that was not all her assailants had done. Her beaded dress had been slit from top to hem, then parted as one might part the pages of a book. Next she had been gutted, her intestines yanked out and strewn over her thighs. As if that were not enough, her breasts had been sliced off. Her throat, evidently, had been slit last.
“The vermin would have done more if they’d had the time,” Allen whispered.
Nate was inclined to agree. Her attackers had known the scream would bring rescuers. So they had not dallied any longer than necessary to finish her off.
The Tennessean looped wide to scour for prints as Nate stepped to the body. Almost tenderly, he folded the dress up over the woman’s exposed parts as best he was able. Her wide, blank eyes sent a tiny chill rippling down his back. He could well imagine the same horrid fate befalling Winona. More than ever, he was upset that she had seen fit to come along.
Allen signaled by chittering like a chipmunk.
Going over, Nate studied the trail left by the departing warriors. “Crows!” he growled, wishing he had killed Little Soldier when he had the chance. Scuff marks showed where they had dragged the Nez Perce off. She had fought them, to no avail.
“Want I should go after them?” Allen volunteered.
Just then a loud gasp heralded the arrival of the others. Richard Ashworth was shocked to his core. The only corpses he had ever seen had been immaculately arranged ones at formal funerals. He blinked at the spreading pool of blood, at the pink gap where her throat had been slashed, at twin moist spots on her chest. Dizziness made him stagger. He would have fallen, but he thrust an arm against a boulder for support.
Emilio Barzini was a human statue, his features inscrutable. The ghastly condition of the woman did not effect him in the least. He had seen quite a few mutilated people in his time; he had even mutilated a few himself. Compared to them, the Indian woman was in good shape.
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