“Ma?” Zach said. Those horses were much too close for comfort. He didn’t see how his mother and he could possibly reach the trees before the herd overtook them.
Winona gave him a push and barked, “Run!” She suited action to words, weaving among the lean-tos until she hit open ground, at which point she raced like the wind.
Little Evelyn, in her childish innocence, cackled with glee, liking the new game they were played.
The thunder grew louder and louder. The encampment was a whirlwind of men and women fleeing. Some didn’t make it. Screams punctuated the thunder, making Winona regret that she had dallied. Their possessions were not worth their lives.
The tree line seemed so impossibly far away. Winona focused on a lightning-charred stump at the edge to the exclusion of all else. Make it there, she told herself. Then they would be safe!
Zach stayed at his mother’s side even though he could have outdistanced her if he had applied himself. He was on her left, between her and the onrushing herd so that whatever fate befell them befell him first.
Scattered shots rang out. A chorus of whinnies rose skyward with the column of dust. The ground itself seemed to shake, and several of the lean-tos collapsed without being touched.
One of the blankets slipped off Winona’s shoulder. She didn’t bother to stop to get it. The herd was so close .that she could see their wide eyes, their flattened ears. The horses were less than the flight of a single arrow away. Not much closer was the north hill, their only hope of survival. She girded herself and ran a fraction faster.
Zach was debating whether to try to drop a few of the lead horses in the slim hope that those behind would part to either side and go around them. It was a long shot, but it was the only one they had.
Winona’s legs ached but she forced them to keep going. The trees reared larger and larger before her. Just when it seemed a sure thing that they would gain safety, the unexpected happened. Evelyn picked that moment to wriggle and push against her. To Winona’s utter dismay, her daughter slipped from her fingers.
Zach was horrified. “Ma!” he cried, slowing to cover them as she whirled.
Evelyn had landed on her side, apparently unhurt. She grinned merrily as Winona seized her. Spinning, Winona flung herself at the vegetation. In her ears pounded imminent death. Her legs stretched to their limit. Another blanket fell. Evelyn wriggled again but this time Winona held on.
Then the trees closed around them. Winona’s foot stubbed on an exposed root and she pitched forward, bracing herself on her elbows and knees to spare her daughter. Gasping for breath, afraid that the horses might still trample them underfoot, she swiveled to see the herd streak past, row after row of terrified animals, raising so much dust that it seeped down her throat and brought tears to her eyes.
Belatedly, Winona thought of her son. “Stalking Coyote!” she cried, pivoting. “Where are you?” Her heart leapt to her throat. There was no sign of him! She peered under the ranks of horses, fearing what she would discover.
“Up here, Ma.”
Winona glanced up. Zach had been a step behind her when they reached the hill. The horses had been almost upon him. In desperation, he had jumped as far and as high as he could. A low limb had offered sanctuary. He had let the parfleches drop and caught hold with one hand. From there it had been simple to swing up and over and brace his back against the trunk to watch the herd pound on by.
“We did it,” Winona breathed, amazed at their deliverance. None of the horses entered the trees, although a few came awfully close to doing so. She covered Blue Flower’s mouth and nose to spare her child from the dust. “We’re safe here.”
“We are,” Zach said, “but what about Pa?”
To answer that crucial question, Zach would have had to join his father minutes ago as Nate King sped through the camp urging people to leave their effects and flee. Most obeyed. Others insisted on gathering their belongings.
A young white woman was on her knees, carefully folding clothes that she slid into a large leather bag. Nate paused in front of her lean-to. “Are you loco, woman? Light a shuck before it’s too late!”
“But these are the only clothes we have,” she protested without looking around.
“You can’t wear them if you’re dead,” Nate pointed out, and dashed on to help an older woman swing a cradleboard onto her back.
The camp was in utter turmoil. Most of the women had kept their heads, but a few were near hysterical, shrieking as they dashed every which way. A few children bawled their lungs out. Some of the men were running back and forth with no evident purpose, so rattled that they couldn’t think straight.
Nate had drifted nearer to the south hill than the north one. He was about to turn and rejoin his wife when it dawned on him that he was the only one who could save those too foolhardy or terrified to save themselves. Jumping onto a log, he bellowed, “Listen to me, all of you! Head for that hill now or you’ll answer to me!” He pointed and repeated his order.
A few of those who heard him hesitated. But within moments every last soul in sight was involved in a mass exodus, abandoning the camp and their possessions.
The herd was dreadfully near. Nate held back, goading others on, giving those who stumbled: a boost, shoving those who were not going fast enough. A few other mountaineers took their cue from him and helped out.
Nate glanced repeatedly at the horses. They were only fifty yards away, narrowing the gap rapidly. He spotted a woman lugging several parfleches much too heavy for her and went to lend a hand, then drew up short on spying an infant seated all by itself a dozen yards back.
The baby took priority. “Drop those bags!” Nate yelled at the woman as he darted toward the child. The woman heard him but shook her head.
With the thunder of hooves drumming loudly in his skull, Nate sprinted to the infant and grabbed her up. She was no more than a year old, dressed in a small buckskin garment adorned with fringe and red beads. Her large, trusting eyes fixed on his as he rotated toward the south hill.
There might not be time to reach it. Nate bounded like an antelope, passing the woman burdened by parfleches. “Leave them!” he shouted, and again was ignored. He could do no more for her, not while he had the child. Speeding on, he glanced to his right and realized the woman would never reach safety. The panicked herd was that close.
Ahead, a woman screamed as she tripped. Scrambling upright, she flung the articles she carried down and ran, limping from a hurt ankle.
Nate came alongside her and hooked his free hand under her elbow to propel her forward. They were the last, except for the stubborn soul bearing the parfleches. He didn’t bother looking at the horses again because they were so near that he could see them clearly out of the corner of his eyes.
Nate took three more strides and then he pushed the woman with all his might and hurled himself at the trees just as something slammed into his shoulder. For a moment he thought that he would be bashed to the earth and reduced to so much shattered bones and pulp, but the impact actually helped, adding momentum to his own leap. Brush rushed up to meet him. Tucking his arms around the child, he crashed into a thicket that cushioned their fall and rolled.
Thorns tore at him. Branches gouged him. A rock scraped his cheek. Over and over he tumbled, to come to rest against a low mound of grass covered earth. The infant giggled as he held her up to see if she had been harmed. She was fine.
Meanwhile, the herd drummed on past, scores upon scores of wild-eyed horses passing over the exact spot Nate had occupied seconds ago.
Twenty feet in, there was a commotion. Some of the horses plunged and snorted, as if to avoid an obstacle. Others ran right over it.
Nate swore that he heard a sickening crunch. To the west, shooting broke out, rifles and pistols blasting without cease. He had no idea what it meant, but he soon noticed that the number of horses had tapered, that small groups of them went galloping by where before it had been a riotous mass. The swirling dust eliminated any chance he had of
learning the reason.
On both sides and behind him people coughed and sputtered and cried. Nate heard a woman calling a name again and again.
“Melissa! Melissa! Oh, God! Where are you?”
On a hunch, Nate let himself be guided by the female’s voice and came on a blubbering woman on her knees, her hands in her hair, her face streaked with tears. “I believe I have something of yours,” he said.
The woman snatched the baby and pressed the child to her bosom. “She’s alive! Oh, thank heaven!” The mother gripped Nate’s wrist. “And thank you! I can never repay you for what you’ve done!”
“No need,” Nate said. He had to pry her fingers loose before he could make his way back to the tree line. The dust had begun to thin but it was still too thick for him to see more than a dozen feet. Most of the horses going by were farther out. In twos and threes the animals made for the open plain.
Nate wondered about his wife and children. He was impatient for the stampede to end so he could go look for them. As the horses became even fewer, he cautiously advanced.
A gust of wind fanned his face, then another. The breeze picked the perfect time to gain strength. In under two minutes the dust had dissipated to swirling tendrils.
It was worse than Nate had anticipated. Broken personal belongings of every kind were scattered everywhere. Dotted among the debris were human forms, most crushed beyond recognition.
All that remained of the stubborn woman who had insisted on keeping her parfleches was a flattened smear of flesh and ruptured bones. Her skull had been broken in three segments. One, relatively intact, included her right eye and part of her nose. The eye was wide with astonishment, as if at the instant of dying she had not believed that it was happening to her.
To the north, remnants of the herd were galloping off across the flatland. Once in the open, dozens had slowed. A handful had taken to grazing.
To the west, Nate saw fifteen to twenty riders rounding up other horses. Among them was Henry Allen, who caught sight of him and hurried over.
“This coon is mighty glad to see you breathing, hoss,” the Tennessean said, adding grimly as he surveyed the camp, “We’ve lost too many fine people this day.”
“Do you know where Jenks is?”
“Over yonder,” Allen said, indicating the hill to the south. “Ran into him a few minutes ago. He’s in one piece but as riled as a wet hen. Says he wants to wipe out the whole Crow nation.”
Nate was scanning the devastated encampment also. North of where the lean-tos had been was the tattered remains of Richard Ashworth’s tent. Hardly enough was left to construct a kite. A small kite. “What about the booshway?”
“Haven’t laid eyes on him yet.” Allen took a shorter grip on his reins as his mount nervously pranced, then gazed out over the prairie. “It could have been a hell of a lot worse. Me and a bunch of the boys were able to stop most of the herd from getting out of the canyon. Only about a hundred and fifty broke through, and of those, only about a hundred reached the prairie.”
“Round up the closest ones. Then we’ll go after the rest,” Nate said as he jogged off to find his family. “And give a holler if you see the greenhorn.”
“Will do.”
The majority of the lean-tos had become so much kindling. One, defying all odds, still stood, the items in it untouched. Littering the ground were torn clothes and blankets, ruptured parfleches, and battered cooking utensils. A single fire flickered feebly.
Nate came to the approximate spot where his lean-to had been and scoured the vicinity. Ten feet away lay the body of an Indian woman, her body twisted and crumpled like a child’s busted doll. His gut balled in a knot, he walked over. A floodtide of relief washed over him when he discovered it wasn’t Winona.
“Pa, we’re over here!”
No words had ever sounded so sweet to Nate as the hail of his oldest. Zach, Winona, and Evelyn were just emerging from the woods that lined the lower slope of the north hill. He ran to meet them, smiling the entire way, stopping at arm’s length to regard the three of them with heartfelt affection. “I thought—” he began slowly, barely able to speak thanks to a constriction in his throat.
“We know,” Winona said. “We thought the same.” She set Blue Flower down.
The mountain man and his Shoshone maiden stepped into each other’s arms and stood silently holding one another. Evelyn tugged at her mother’s dress but Winona paid no heed.
Zach politely looked away. One thing he had learned during his short life was that his ma and pa were as fond of hugging each other as a bear was of eating honey. A few years ago their displays of affection had embarrassed him; he could never say why. But of late, he had begun to notice girls in a whole new light, and with his new interest had grown a whole new appreciation for the love his folks shared. He hoped that one day he would meet a girl who cared for him as deeply as his ma did for his pa.
The crack of a twig brought Nate down to earth. Stepping back, he saw the expedition’s leader and a hulking figure walk from the pines.
Richard Ashworth was in near shock. He had been on his cot when the alarm sounded, and he had shuffled to the flap to ascertain why everyone was in an uproar. In his befuddled state, he had not made much sense of the shouts and the rumbling in the distance.
Usually Ashworth had to indulge in several long sips from his flask before he was fit to greet a new day. On this morning, the sudden appearance of Emilio had done the trick.
“Dress quickly,” the Sicilian had said, brushing past him without so much as asking permission to enter.
“How dare you!” Ashworth had protested.
“If you’re not ready when I am, I’ll carry you,” Emilio had said, going to a pair of expensive leather carrying cases Ashworth had purchased in New York City. Linked by a wide strip, they sported silver clasps and studs. “I’d suggest you hurry.”
Suitably motivated, Ashworth had hastily donned attire while his shadow gathered up an armload of his clothes and other effects. As he draped his cape over his shoulders, the ground under them had trembled as if from an earthquake. He had moved to the flap and nearly fainted. Thankfully, Emilio had hauled him out by the wrist and sprinted toward the forest with a speed belying his huge bulk.
They had barely reached safety. Crouched behind a tree, Ashworth had seen the camp destroyed, had seen lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye, had seen valuable supplies rendered worthless. Worst of all, he had watched his tent topple, seen it fall and be tromped under a legion of hooves.
Ashworth had yet to recover. Now, blankly halting in front of Nate King, he said, “What caused this disaster? Why did our animals stampede?”
“I should think you would have guessed,” Nate said. “Blame your old friend Little Soldier.”
“The Crows again?” Ashworth bleated, his horror growing. Now, in addition to the life of the Indian woman, he had to shoulder a large measure of blame for the destruction of their camp. It numbed him to realize that if he hadn’t stopped King the other day, Little Soldier would be dead and the Crows would not be harassing them.
“What do we do? Have half the men go hunt the bastard down?”
It was Emilio who asked. Nate was inclined to make a sarcastic reply, but he held his peace. “It’s up to your boss. We could do it that way, but we’d lose a lot of time—days, maybe weeks if he reaches Crow country before we catch him.”
Ashworth gestured at the devastation. “Surely you’re not suggesting that we let this atrocity go unpunished?”
Under different circumstances, Nate would have laughed. This was the same man who had begged him not to harm a hair on Little Soldier’s head! “Not at all,” he answered. “I think two or three men can do what has to be done. Myself, Allen, and one other should be ample.”
“I’ll go,” Emilio offered. He was amused when the frontiersman and the silver spoon both betrayed surprise. He ventured no explanation. Why should he? They had no business knowing that it was his job to keep Ashwort
h alive until the pelts were sold. Nor need they learn that since he couldn’t take it for granted Little Soldier wouldn’t attack again, he had to dispose of the Crow before the Crow disposed of Ashworth.
“We can manage without you,” Nate said, suspicious of the Sicilian’s strange change in attitude.
“Afraid I’ll stick cold steel into you when your back is turned?” Emilio said, insulted. “I don’t need to sneak up on someone to kill them. When your time comes, we’ll be face-to-face.”
The lack of propriety jarred Richard Ashworth back to normal. “See here, Emilio! I won’t have talk like that, do you understand? What if the Brothers were to learn that you have a habit of threatening anyone who so much as looks at you crosswise?”
Nate saw a flicker of—something—cross the giant’s features. “Who are the Brothers?” he inquired, and he was puzzled when the two men shared a look that implied it was a mutual secret.
“Business associates of mine,” Ashworth said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He trudged off to forestall additional question, “ Emilio at his heels. When they had gone a suitable distance, he remarked, “That was careless of me. I doubt any of these bumpkins have heard of your employers, but it wouldn’t do to let the cat out of the bag, as it were. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
Emilio merely grunted. The silver spoons blunder had given him yet another excuse to eliminate Nate King just as soon as King outlived his usefulness. Emilio couldn’t wait.
Fifteen
The final tally of the expedition’s losses was lower than Richard Ashworth had feared it would be but still much too high in one crucial respect: the number of lives lost. Three mountain men, four women, and one child died in the stampede. Eight more suffered mild injuries. Allen thought that was bad enough. But then, two days later, Nate King came to him and mentioned it was unlikely they would ever again set eyes on Cornish and the three trappers who had gone with the young mountaineer to save Cornish’s Nez Perce wife. “They should have been back by now,” Nate said sadly. “Something must have gone wrong.”
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