One-Eye’s smirk faded and his good eye narrowed. “It won’t work. You must know how I feel about redskins. But I refuse to fall for it.”
“Straight tongue,” Nate said. “I swear by the lives of my wife and children.” Jackson was right in one respect; he was grasping at a straw, but it was a real straw. Nate had seen the barest of movement in the grass, movement so slight that he almost did not notice it. The Comanche’s painted face was almost invisible, but it was there.
“You’d swear by your family?” One-Eye swallowed and lowered his knife.
“Damn me if I’m not starting to believe you.”
Shipley Beecher chose that moment to demand, “What are you two whispering about? What the hell is going on?”
Without saying a word, Jackson stood, walked over to the farmer, and stomped on his stomach. Beecher howled and bucked against the ropes and then lay fiercely cursing his tormentor.
One-Eye stood there, one leg slightly to one side, seemingly staring down at Beecher. When the farmer finally ran out of swearwords, Jackson stomped on him again, then came over and squatted beside Nate.
“I’ll be damned.”
“You saw the Comanche?”
“It took some doing but I saw him, yes.” One-Eye gnawed on his lower lip. “This changes things.”
“Cut us loose. We’ll help you.”
One-Eye shook his head. “I have a better idea. And you have only yourself to blame.”
“You wouldn’t,” Nate said.
“That night the Shoshones did this to me,” One-Eye said, touching his eye patch, “changed me. I hate redskins almost as much as I hate you. I’m also, I admit, a bit skittish about them ever getting their hands on me again.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Nate watched the face in the grass. It had not moved. The warrior did not suspect he had been discovered.
“Where there is one Comanche, there are bound to be more,” One-Eye said. “A lot more. There could be ten, there could be twenty. More than the three of us can handle.”
“We stand a better chance together,” Nate argued.
“We don’t stand a chance in Hell,” One-Eye said. “Not against Comanches. And we both know what they will do if they get their hands on us.”
Nate would rather not think about it. Comanches were notorious for torturing captives, particularly whites, especially men.
“No, sir,” One-Eye said, more to himself. “The notion of them carving on me rattles me down to the bone. They might be surrounding us even as we chat, if they haven’t already.” He gave a slight start. “And here I am, wasting breath on you.”
“I don’t want to die this way,” Nate said.
“I didn’t want to lose an eye, either, but look at me now,” One-Eye said angrily. Then, surprisingly, he smiled. “In a way, this is perfect. You’ll get to feel exactly like I felt that night. You’ll get to experience everything I experienced, and more. The pain. The fear. All of it.”
“At least take the woman.”
One-Eye shook his head. “If I throw her over a horse, the Comanches will guess what I’m up to.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll be lucky. Maybe they won’t kill her. She’ll wish they had after she’s been some buck’s squaw for a few years. But she’ll be breathing.”
“Don’t,” Nate said.
“They’ll wring the spunk out of her. They’ll maim her spirit and her body. She’ll never be the same. Just like I never was.”
“Isn’t there a shred of decency left in you?”
“Save your breath. Nothing you can say will change my mind.” One-Eye frowned. “I wanted to do you myself. But the Comanches will do it better. I’ve heard a man can last for days, in pain the whole while. That’s what I call fitting.”
“Congratulations,” Nate said wryly. “You’ve sunk as low as a man can sink.”
“That’s what you think. Anything you want me to tell your wife when I see her?”
Nate fought down new fear. “You can tell my son to kill you slow.”
“Your son?” One-Eye cocked his head. “Oh. That’s right. I’d forgotten about him. Stalking Coyote, isn’t that his Shoshone name? Quite the killer, folks say. Just like most ’breeds.”
“Quite the tracker, too,” Nate said. “Him and Shakespeare McNair.”
“McNair? What does that old coot have to do with anything?”
“We’ve been partners for years. He’s my best friend, and my neighbor, and he hasn’t lost an ounce of vitality.”
“You don’t say?” Gnawing on his lower lip was becoming a habit for One-Eye. “There’s another gent I’d rather not tangle with. Did you know the Indians all call him Carcajou? That’s French for wolverine. In his younger days he was supposed to be a holy terror when his dander was up.”
“He still is.”
One-Eye smiled. “I know what you’re up to. And it worked. I’m not fool enough to go up against your son and McNair, both. Your wife is safe.”
Nate tried hard not to show the relief that coursed through him.
“But you’re not,” One-Eye gloated. His gaze darted right and left. “No sign of any other Comanches yet. Any last words before I ago?”
Nate merely stared.
“No? Well, I have a few. You won’t want to hear them, but that will make it all the sweeter.”
“Just go.”
“You’re being petty. One of my eyes is worth a minute of your time, don’t you think?” Jackson’s tone became flinty. “No one has the right to do what you did to me. I’m sure as hell no Bible-thumper, but I know there’s a line in there somewhere about judge not, lest ye be judged. That’s what you did. You judged me, you son of a bitch, and sicced those kin of yours on me.”
“There’s also a line in the Bible about an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”
“I didn’t touch that brat’s eyes!”
“No, you did something worse. You did something so despicable, the Shoshones could not believe it. You’re lucky. Touch The Clouds did not have the chance to bum you at the stake after he carved on you.”
“Spoiled his fun, didn’t I?” One-Eye grinned. “Well, this is it. I would love to sneak back and see how they go about it, but a man shouldn’t play with fire.” He cradled his rifle and turned. Moving casually so as not to give away his intention, he walked over to Cynthia and poked her. She didn’t stir. Then, stepping to his horse, he pretended to rummage in a saddlebag. Suddenly he vaulted into the saddle, grabbed the reins to the other two horses and the lead rope to the packhorse, and slapped his heels. In a flurry of hooves he galloped north, cackling cheerfully. “See you in Hell!”
“What is he doing?” Shipley Beecher asked.
The drum of hoofbeats gradually faded. Silence fell, complete and utter silence. In the stillness, Nate swore he could hear the beat of his heart. There were just the three of them now, bound and helpless.
The three of them, and the Comanches.
Eight
Quiet lay over the prairie. Quiet save for the whisper of the wind and the rustle of grass.
A sheen of sweat caked Nate King. Drops of sweat beaded his brow. The burning sun was partly to blame. That, and his exertions.
A quarter of an hour had gone by since One-Eye Jackson fled. Nate had spent every second straining against the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. The ropes dug into his flesh, dug deep, drawing blood. But that did not stop Nate from twisting and wrenching even as he surged upward, every muscle in his shoulders and arms bulging.
They did not have much time. The face had disappeared. The Comanche who had been spying on them had gone to fetch others, was Nate’s guess.
His wrists and shoulders ached abominably, but he tried again. He heaved his big frame off the ground and tugged with all his might, then sank back, momentarily spent.
“King?” Shipley Beecher said.
Girding himself, Nate flexed his fingers.
“King! I know you can hear me.”
“What do you want?”
�
�Where did Jackson go? Why did he race off like that? What was all that whispering about?”
“Try to break free,” Nate said. “We don’t have much time.”
“He’s coming back? Then why did he take all the horses? Even the packhorse?” Shipley paused. “As for getting loose, I wouldn’t count on it, not with this bullet hole in my shoulder. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m weak and dizzy.”
“You’ll be dead if we don’t get free.” Nate tried again, calling on all the strength he possessed. The stake to which his right wrist had been tied moved ever so slightly.
“I want to ask you something,” Shipley said.
“Not now.”
“It’s about Jackson. What did he do that made the Shoshones cut out his eye? What was so terrible?”
“He was living with a woman named Little Fawn,” Nate said while working his right wrist back and forth.
“I heard him say that, yes. Did he hurt her? Or maybe kill her?”
“Before Jackson took up with Little Fawn, she had a husband, a warrior who was killed by the Blackfeet. Little Fawn and the warrior had a daughter.” Nate felt the stake give a tiny bit more.
“So?”
“The daughter was ten.”
“Again, so?
“The daughter was ten.”
“You just said that.”
Nate stopped tugging and twisted his head toward the farmer. “Little Fawn left the daughter alone with Jackson one afternoon.”
“Once more, so what? Did he hit her or something?”
“My wife wanted to invite Little Fawn over for supper. Little Fawn was a friend of hers. I stopped by their lodge to ask her and found the girl crying under a robe. I asked the girl what was wrong. She told me.”
“Told you what?”
“I went to Touch The Clouds. He took it from there.” Nate resumed his assault on the loose stake.
“Will you quit speaking in riddles and get to the point? What did Jackson do that was so—” Shipley stopped, gasped, and exclaimed, “No! Not that? Surely not that?”
“That,” Nate said. “Jackson threatened to slit the girl’s throat if she told anyone. Then he went off to hunt. When he came back, the Shoshones were waiting for him.”
“And this Touch The Clouds cut out his eye?” Shipley asked. “Jackson blames you and has hated you ever since. Is that how it is?”
“We might have our own eyes cut out if we don’t stop jabbering and work on these ropes.” Nate arched his body. The pain in his arms and legs was excruciating, but he grit his teeth and surged upward again.
“But Jackson left like a bat out of Hell.”
“It’s not him you have to worry about. It’s Comanches,” Nate explained. “A war party. They’ll be here any minute.” Blood was dripping from both wrists. He had loosened the right stake a little more, but it was nowhere near enough. It would take him an hour, at least. An hour they did not have. The Comanches could not be that far off.
Then Cynthia Beecher groaned and slowly sat up. Apparently forgetting her wrists were tied, she tried to move her arms. “Where is he?” she asked, and moved her jaw from side to side. “Where did that awful man who slugged me get to?”
“We have worse trouble,” Nate said, and told her about the Comanches.
Sliding her legs under her, Cynthia stood. She swayed, took a step, swayed some more. “I can’t clear my head,” she said, and shook it. Grimacing, she moved determinedly toward them.
“Thank God!” Shipley declared.
Cynthia came to Nate, and stopped. She sank next to the stake that held his right arm, turned her back to it, and began prying at the knots. She had to look over her shoulder to see what she was doing.
Shipley was flabbergasted. “You’re helping him before you help me? Does this mean all those terrible things Jackson said were true?”
“It means he was closer to me and he can free you a lot faster than I can, and that’s all it means,” Cynthia said testily.
“But I’m your husband, Cyn.”
“Don’t start, Ship. For God’s sake, don’t start in on me again. I need to concentrate.”
The seconds became centuries, the minutes eternities. Nate lay still in order not to jiggle the rope. Cynthia pried and tugged and pulled, working feverishly. She broke a fingernail. She broke two. A finger began bleeding but she did not stop. Finally one of the knots came undone. The second proved easier.
Nate wasted no time. The moment his right wrist was free, he freed his left, then untied his ankles. He untied Cynthia, then hurried to Shipley and soon had the farmer free, as well.
“What now?” Cynthia asked, anxiously scanning the prairie. “What chance do we have against a Comanche war party?”
“We’re unarmed and on foot,” Shipley said. “We don’t stand any chance at all.”
Nate bent and pulled on one of the stakes. It took some doing but he got it out of the ground and brushed off the dirt.
“What good is that thing?” Shipley wanted to know.
“We need a weapon and it has a point,” Nate said. Not much of a point, but it was better than nothing. He immediately headed west, walking briskly, forcing the others to hasten to keep up with him.
“Not so fast,” Shipley Beecher complained. “My shoulder is throbbing and I can hardly walk.”
“It’s root hog or die,” Nate said. “I can’t carry you. We wouldn’t get far before the Comanches caught us. You’ll have to keep up.”
“That’s harsh, King,” Shipley said. “I’m white, like you. You can’t just go off and leave me.” He blinked, glanced at Cynthia, and flushed red. “Or maybe you have a secret reason to want me dead.”
Nate did not dignify the question with an answer. He hiked on, casting repeated glances to the south and east. The Comanches, he figured, would come from either one direction or the other. The warrior in the grass had been to the east; Comanche territory was to the south.
“Did you hear me?” Shipley demanded.
The veneer of patience Nate had clung to snapped. Whirling, he towered over the farmer, his big fists clenched. “For the last time. Nothing happened between your wife and me. Nothing will happen between your wife and me.” He walked on before he did something both of them would regret.
Cynthia fell behind and stayed at her husband’s side. She tried twice to talk to him, but he refused to reply.
Nate would be glad when he was shed of them. But right now he had a more important problem. On horseback, the war party would rapidly overhaul them. They were as good as dead unless he could pull a miracle out of his pocket, and his pockets were empty.
The unexpected delayed Howeah.
He was racing back to bring the others when he spied a riderless horse to the southwest. Since horses were as valuable to the Nemene as the yellow ore that glittered was prized by whites, he slowed to observe the animal and determine whether it was worth his attention.
A tingle ran through him. Seldom had Howeah seen so magnificent a horse.
It was a bay. Everything about it spoke of endurance and speed. One look, and he had to have it. He reined toward it, only to have it turn and trot away. He rode faster. The bay went faster. He galloped as swiftly as a raven on the wind. The bay galloped even more swiftly.
Stubbornly, Howeah kept after it. The whites who had been staked out were not going anywhere. He could spare the time needed to catch the bay and claim it as his own. It was not a wild horse. The saddle on its back told him that. A white saddle, too. Which made stealing it all the sweeter. Next to killing a white, the Nemene most loved to steal a white’s horse.
But catching the bay proved to be more difficult than Howeah counted on. He had been at it awhile when he slowed and turned his mount to the south to rejoin his companions. He had traveled a short way when he glanced back and was stupefied to see the bay following him.
Howeah was not like Sargento. He did not see omens in everything. But this was a good sign. He slowed, thinking the bay might come closer,
but it slowed, too, keeping the same distance between them.
“Clever,” Howeah said aloud. “But I can be clever too. Keep following me and you will find out how clever.”
The others were waiting for news.
“What has taken you so long?” Nocona demanded. “Did you find the whites or not?”
“We thought perhaps the whites had caught you and we were about to come look for you,” Soko said.
“Are there three white men and one white woman as we thought?” Pahkah asked.
“Do the men have hair?” Sargento spoke up. Bald enemies were a peeve of his.
“I found the whites and they all have hair.” Howeah shifted and pointed. “I also found that.”
Their love of horseflesh was evinced in their praise of the bay, which had stopped some distance off and was staring at them.
“Why have you not caught it?” Sargento asked.
Howeah rejoined, “Who can catch the wind?”
Soko shielded his eyes from the sun to better study the animal. “It is that fast?”
“I have never seen faster,” Howeah admitted. “Not even the horse of Tabbaquena.”
That impressed them. Tabbaquena was a warrior of great renown among the Nemene and an acknowledged parabio, or leader. He was wise and without fear. He also owned more horses than any living Nemene, a herd so fabulous it was the talk of every band and the envy of every warrior. One of his horses was of such superior stock it had never been beaten in a race.
“I claim the bay for my own,” Howeah declared. “But I cannot catch him on my own.”
Sargento’s features clouded. “You ask us to chase a horse when there are whites to slay?”
“Two of the white men are staked to the ground. The woman is tied,” Howeah related.
“You have been busy,” Nocona said. “Why did you not wait for us?”
More time went by as Howeah told them about the one-eyed white who had staked out the others and hit the woman and then rode off with their horses.
“The strangeness of the whites is without end,” Soko said.
“They are stupid, like goats,” Sargento declared.
“It is more than that,” Soko said. “I believe they are born strange. They come into the world not knowing who they are or why they are here. They live their whole lives without regard for the Everywhere Spirit. Their warriors fight for pieces of metal, not to show their courage. They do not give of their bounty to one another but hoard it for themselves. No one can argue this is strange. No one can argue they live this strangeness from the cradleboard to the grave.”
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