Wilderness Giant Edition 5

by David Robbins

  The two days were spent rounding up the stock that had stampeded onto the prairie. Eighty-one horses were recovered. Combined with the 297 that Henry Allen’s quick thinking prevented from running off, Ashworth was pleased to have 378 animals at his disposal. Only twenty-two were gone for good.

  As for the expedition’s supplies, the toll was not as severe as Ashworth had feared. True, many of his prized personal possessions were lost, as were those of the married mountain men and their families. But most of the supplies carried by the packhorses had been piled to the south of the mouth of the canyon and had been spared when the horses broke out.

  On the morning of the third day, as the first flush of color tinged the eastern sky, Nate King and Henry Allen rode up to the lean-to that served as Ashworth’s quarters.

  Ashworth was expecting them. Wrapped tightly in his cape against the morning chill, he tried to hide his anxiety. He had grown to rely heavily on King and did not want to lose the man. “I don’t like this,” he said bluntly. “Why can’t we just move on?”

  Nate arched an eyebrow. “You were the one all fired up to get revenge the other night as I recollect,” he reminded their leader.

  Ashworth fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “The stress of the moment,” he grumbled. “Little Soldier is probably long gone by now. You’ll be wasting your time.”

  “We can’t let him get away with what he did,” Nate responded. “Don’t worry. One way or the other, we’ll catch up with Jenks and you well before the expedition reaches Blackfoot country.”

  “I still don’t like it.” Ashworth refused to be mollified. “Your rightful place is here with us.”

  Nate was spared further argument by the arrival of the giant Sicilian. Emilio Barzini straddled a big sorrel that would have dwarfed any other man. His immense bulk lent it the aspect of a child’s pony. “I’m ready when you are,” he rumbled.

  Nate nodded at Ashworth, wheeled the black stallion, and headed west. Over a shoulder he said to the giant, “We’ll ride Indian fashion in single file. Allen will bring up the rear. You stay between us. Try not to make much noise if you can help it.”

  Emilio grunted in acknowledgment. He didn’t resent being treated as if he were incompetent. He would freely admit the other two men had more experience in the wilderness. But where it counted the most—being able to kill another human being without batting an eye—he was their equal, if not their superior. Let them lead him to the Crows. Then they could sit back if they wanted and watch a professional at work.

  Nate swiveled in his saddle just before the foliage enveloped him. Winona, Zach, and Evelyn were near their new lean-to, staring sorrowfully. Zach waved; so Nate returned the favor and all three smiled.

  Putting them from his mind in order to concentrate on the job at hand, Nate made a sweep of the rugged terrain bordering the canyon. He found the Crow trail easily enough. Only four warriors had taken part in stampeding the herd. Their tracks led southward.

  Fortunately it hadn’t rained since that fateful morning. The sign was clear enough for Nate to urge his mount to a trot more often than not, stopping only now and again to verify that they had not strayed off the trail.

  No one spoke. Nate and Henry Allen were quiet out of habit, using expressions and gestures to communicate. Emilio was content to follow their example. He had never been much of a talker anyway. He liked to let his actions speak for him.

  It was the middle of the morning when they located where the Crow camp had been, in a steep gully rimmed by tall trees. The ashes of the fire were cold to Nate’s touch. He walked in ever-widening circles, his nose bent to the spoor. There had been nine warriors, all told, and they had headed south in a body the day after the stampede. The four Crows hadn’t been alone.

  Nate was examining the prints when Henry Allen called his name. The Tennessean stood on a low mound that partially hid whatever lay beyond on the gully floor. Rising, Nate strode over. He nearly gagged when a revolting stench made his stomach chum. It was an odor he knew all too well.

  Cornish and one of the men who had gone with him had been stripped naked and staked out. Their mouths had been sewn shut, no doubt so they couldn’t scream when the torture started. Both had been skinned in parts, narrow strips peeled from their bodies as a man might peel an orange. Their ears had been hacked off, their noses removed. The rest was unspeakably vile, vicious even by the savage standards of the frontier.

  Nate saw that their eyes hadn’t been gouged out, but that was only so they could see what the warriors had been doing to them. He imagined that Little Soldier had forced the Nez Perce woman to watch the whole thing.

  Emilio regarded the Crow handiwork with interest. Having tortured more than his share of fools who incurred the wrath of his employers, he recognized the work of a master when he saw it. Whoever mutilated the frontiersmen knew exactly what he had been doing. Every cut and blow had been calculated to inflict supreme pain. The mountain men had suffered the torment of the damned.

  Two of the men with Cornish had been spared. Nate guessed that Little Soldier would take the pair back to the Crow village to parade them in triumph, then give them the same treatment accorded their friends. Cornish’s wife would be compelled to take a Crow warrior as her mate, perhaps even Little Soldier himself.

  Buzzards and other scavengers had been at the bodies. Nate spent five minutes covering the grisly remains with stones and dirt. It was the best that could be done under the circumstances. Mounting, they rode out.

  More than ever, Nate was determined to give Little Soldier his due. If the atrocity went unpunished and word spread among the various tribes, the mountaineers would be seen as weak, as fair game for any hotheaded young warrior who wanted to make a name for himself among his people.

  Nate pushed hard. Where possible, they galloped. They took brief rests only when their horses flagged. Sunset came and went and still they forged on. Nate had a fair notion of roughly where the Crows were heading; so he no longer needed to rely exclusively on their tracks to guide him.

  Riding at night was always a risky proposition. Obstacles were harder to avoid. Ruts and animal burrows could cripple a horse. Low branches might poke out the eye of an unwary rider. A man could not afford to let down his guard for an instant.

  Nate had an added problem in that he didn’t like having the Sicilian at his back the whole time. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling. Several times the skin between his shoulder blades prickled, and when he look around, he would catch the giant staring at him.

  Despite everything Emilio had said, Nate didn’t trust the man. He wouldn’t put it past Barzini to kill him if given the chance. It wasn’t bad enough that Nate had to be on the lookout for the Crows and wild beasts; he also had to be wary of one of his own party.

  Henry Allen seemed to be aware of Nate’s feelings. Nate noticed that the man from Tennessee always stayed close to him when they stopped and never drifted far behind when they were on the go. It helped that Allen was watching over him, but not enough to dispel the uneasy feeling that nagged Nate from the moment they left Ashworth.

  Close to two in the morning, Nate finally called a halt. A cold camp had to suffice. The horses were tethered where they could graze. The three men turned in.

  Nate did not judge it necessary to take turns standing guard. Few Indians were abroad at night, and if any predators came close, the horses were bound to act up, awakening him. As for Barzini, Nate just had to trust in Providence.

  Before sunrise the three avengers were back on the trail. Nate munched jerked venison Winona had packed, savoring the tangy taste. Her jerky was always softer than his and twice as delicious.

  Noon passed. The hoofprints revealed that the Crows had been taking their sweet time. Evidently Little Soldier believed his band had gotten clean away.

  Toward late afternoon Nate glimpsed dark shapes pinwheeling in the sky far ahead. He hoped against hope that they weren’t what he thought, but they were. Half-a-dozen buzzards circ
led a high country meadow. The object of their interest was sheathed by tall grass.

  Nate motioned. Allen fanned out to the right. Emilio, seeing this, went left.

  The corpse lay on its side, a pool of dry blood framing the head like a dark scarlet halo. The mountain man still wore his buckskins and moccasins. He had taken three arrows low in the back, three more higher up.

  Flattened grass told the story. The man had slipped his bounds and tried to escape on foot. Six of the Crows had ridden him down. Out of spite or anger or perhaps because he had struck one of them in getting away, they had turned him into a pincushion, then lifted his scalp.

  Allen dismounted to examine the blood. Rubbing some of it between his fingers, he said, “Couldn’t have been more than eight hours ago. We’re gaining.”

  “Not fast enough,” Nate commented.

  A shallow grave, hastily dug, served their purpose. Nate galloped southward yet again. He had been through the particular stretch of mountains before them and believed that he could guess where the Crows would make camp that night.

  “Hidden Lake?” Allen called out, as if he could read Nate’s thoughts.

  “That would be my hunch.”

  Situated on a tableland bordered by snowcapped peaks, the small lake was regularly visited by the Crows. Warriors ventured to the heights above to snare eagles for the feathers so prized in headdresses. Since the lake contained no beaver, it was of little interest to the whites. Only a few mountaineers had ever been there.

  Nate was one. He recalled that on the other side of the tableland lay a lush valley where Little Soldier’s village was bound to be. Unless the wily Crow could be stopped before he reached it, dispensing justice would be impossible.

  Another sunset painted the sky in vivid hues that no artist could ever rival. Twilight gathered and deepened. Nate had to rely on his heels to spur the stallion on at a brisk clip. The forest came alive with typical night sounds.

  A series of switchbacks brought them to the tableland shortly after midnight. A break in the trees rewarded them with a glimpse of the lake, its tranquil surface reflecting both the stars on high and the glow of two small fires at the water’s edge.

  “We did it!” Henry Allen whispered.

  Nate studied the fires, which were spaced dozens of yards apart. Given the size of Little Soldier’s war party, it was odd that the Crows had more than one. He held the stallion to a slow walk and wound through the trees to a cluster of huge boulders. Sliding down, he ground hitched his horse, then waited for his companions to join him.

  Emilio kept his face impassive but inwardly he was more excited than he had been since he killed his first man years ago. The prospect of clashing with fierce savages on their own terms was a rare treat.

  Emilio had always liked a challenge. When he first started working for the Brothers, he had relished the chance for heady combat, the thrill of pitting his sinews against those of his victims.

  All too often, though, the men Emilio had been sent to dispatch had proven to be weaklings or craven cowards who put up little or no resistance. Killing them had been like swatting gnats. They were insignificant, pitiful creatures, hardly meriting any effort. He had derived no enjoyment from slaying them.

  Enemies worthy of the name were few and far between, but the Crows promised to be a rare test of Emilio’s skill. He hoped their prowess had not been overrated. Should they prove as easy to slay as their white counterparts, he would be tremendously disappointed.

  Nate would rather have left the Sicilian there, but he could think of no excuse to justify it. “Stay behind us,” he told the giant. “Move as silently as you can.”

  “You won’t even know I’m here,” Emilio said.

  Doubting that very much, Nate moved into the pines. He counted on hearing the clomp of heavy footsteps, on the crackle and snap of twigs, but the only sound he heard was the sigh of the wind and the distant howl of a wolf. Thinking that the Sicilian had lost sight of them in the dark and fallen behind, he glanced back and was surprised to discover Barzini practically breathing down Allen’s neck.

  Only someone with exceptional skill could move like that, Nate mused. There was more to the giant than he had suspected.

  Waist-high cattails lined the lake. Once Nate reached them, he bore to the left and followed the shoreline to a vantage point sixty yards from the fires. One was almost out; the other would not last more than half an hour unless wood were added. The glow bathed the sleeping forms of four warriors and hinted at the presence of more.

  A single Crow was awake, but barely. Seated near the dancing flames, he had his forearms resting on his knees and his cheek on his arms. He yawned frequently. Twice he raised his head and shook it vigorously in order to keep from drifting off.

  Nate couldn’t see Little Soldier. The Nez Perce woman, Yellow Bird, was slumped over by the fire that had nearly gone out, her posture one of total despair.

  Bound and left lying within inches of the lake was the last of the four men who had intended to rescue her. Sam Guthrie was his name, Nate remembered. Guthrie hailed from Indiana; he had only been in the mountains a couple of years. Shadow wreathed Guthrie’s face, so Nate couldn’t tell if the man was awake or not.

  A hint of movement signified that Henry Allen was leaning toward him. Nate tilted so the Tennessean could whisper in his ear.

  “Something ain’t quite right, hoss.”

  The same disturbing feeling gnawed at Nate. All appeared to be as it should, yet he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that he was overlooking an element he shouldn’t.

  Emilio couldn’t understand what the mountain men were waiting for. They had found the Crows. It was time to kill or be killed. Sliding a hand up his right sleeve, he palmed one of his stilettos. Handcrafted by a master knifemaker in Sicily just for him, it was twice the size of an ordinary stiletto, but still perfectly balanced and sharper than the keenest razor.

  The trappers were studying the camp. Emilio saw no need to waste more time; so he slipped on around them and stalked the warrior keeping watch. The man’s head bobbed. It wouldn’t be long before he joined his fellows in slumber—or if Emilio had his way, his ancestors in the grave.

  Nate was being cautious. He refused to commit himself until he was certain no nasty surprises awaited them. Then he saw a massive shape outlined against the backdrop of trees, a shape moving through the very center of the Crow camp much as might a stalking grizzly, and he realized that his wishes no longer mattered. They were committed, whether they wanted to be or not.

  “That blamed jackass!” Allen whispered.

  Nate begged to differ, but he never uttered a word. They were the jackasses, for not having noticed sooner that the Sicilian had given them the slip.

  Emilio had his rifle in his left hand, the stiletto in his right. He was within two paces of the guard when he set the rifle down. The Crow rose up and looked around, but not to his rear. Emilio smirked and closed in. Hooking his left wrist under the Indian’s chin, he clamped down on the man’s windpipe even as he effortlessly jerked the Crow erect and plunged the stiletto into the warrior’s back. A single thrust was all that Emilio needed.

  The Crow went limp. Not a sound had been made except for the soft hiss of steel slicing apart flesh. Emilio carefully eased the body to the ground, arranged it to give the illusion the man was asleep, and stepped to a Crow who actually was. Clamping his free hand over the warrior’s mouth, Emilio plunged the stiletto between two of the lower ribs. The warrior gave a convulsive twitch, then went limp. Just like that, Emilio had extinguished a second life.

  Nate was flabbergasted at the ease with which the Sicilian slew the Crows. Four of them were dead before Nate and Allen collected their wits and moved in to lend a hand. Allen slanted toward the Nez Perce while Nate hastened to Guthrie.

  All went well until Nate put a hand on the captive. The moment he did, Guthrie shot up off the ground and bawled like a stricken calf for its mother. It was an automatic reaction on Guthrie�
��s part, born of fear and desperation. And it had a predictable outcome.

  The shriek brought every last Crow to his feet. For a few fleeting seconds the tableau froze, Allen still yards from the woman, Emilio with his stiletto jutting from the ribs of a fifth warrior.

  In that frozen interval, the missing element revealed itself. Off to the southwest, Nate spotted the tethered horses. In the dark it was difficult to be exact, but he could clearly tell that there were far more than nine. In a flash of insight he realized why there had been two fires: Little Soldier’s band wasn’t the only one camped at Hidden Lake. Another group had already been there when Little Soldier arrived. There were far more than nine warriors. Thirty, perhaps. More than enough to slay Nate, the Tennessean, and the Sicilian combined.

  A warrior in front of Nate galvanized into life, reaching for a knife on his left hip. Nate leveled his Hawken and fired, the shot smashing the man to the earth. He clubbed another warrior who tried to stop him from reaching Yellow Bird as Henry Allen’s Kentucky boomed and fully half the Crows vented strident war whoops.

  Bedlam ensued. Nate glimpsed the Tennessean backpedaling toward the reeds as a knot of enraged Crows closed in. A pistol barked and one dropped.

  Over by the fire, Emilio was hemmed in on three sides, his back to the water. His rifle was yards away, and it might as well have been on the moon. Several warriors leapt forward, weapons upraised. In a twinkling he produced another stiletto, and with one in each hand, he met his attackers head on.

  Nate reached Yellow Bird. Her face aglow with hope, she twisted and extended her wrists for him to cut her free. But as he squatted, something streaked under his right arm from behind, brushing the fringe on his buckskin shirt.