King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1)

by David Thompson

  Nathaniel propped his rifle against the wall and took his uncle’s Hawken. He stepped to the only window, located to the right of the door. There was no glass, but a deerskin flap had been tacked to the top, rolled up, and then tied to afford a passage for the breeze. Inching his head to the sill, he peeked outside and saw only the trees, the lake, and the fowl. “I don’t see anyone,” he whispered.

  “The savage is playing a game with us.”

  “Who is?”

  “Thunder Rider.”

  “Do you mean he followed us all the way here?”

  “That’d be my guess, nephew.”

  “But White Eagle and those other Cheyenne went after him.”

  “He got away from them.”

  Nathaniel still couldn’t believe that the Kiowa warrior had trailed them so far. “How could he follow us without you spotting him?”

  “He’s an Indian, Nate, not a clumsy white man like Gant and those others.”

  Perplexed, Nathanial scurried back to his uncle. “But why would he come all this way? Why didn’t he ambush us earlier?”

  “I don’t know why he waited so long. Maybe he felt he couldn’t get close enough to us on the prairie. Or maybe he just wanted to learn where we were headed,” Zeke said. “But I do know he’s out for revenge. We shamed him, and he won’t rest until he’s taken our hair.”

  Nathaniel stared at the lance, alarmed at the red stain developing on his uncle’s shirt. “How do I remove the damn thing?”

  “You don’t.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Nathaniel insisted. “Tell me how to remove the lance.”

  Ezekiel looked into his nephew’s eyes. “There’s no need,” he responded, the words barely audible.

  “Why not?” Nathaniel queried, instinctively sensing the answer, filled with fear at what his uncle might say next.

  “I’m dying, Nate.”

  The statement resounded in Nathaniel’s mind with all the force of a thunderclap, and he stared at his uncle in disbelief. “You can’t die.”

  “We all do eventually,” Zeke said, and gave a wan smile.

  “But you don’t know for a fact that you’re dying. If I take out the lance and dress the wound, you could live.”

  “I know it, Nate. I can feel it. I’m all torn up inside. I’m leaking like a sieve.”

  “You don’t know that!” Nathaniel insisted, a tinge of desperation to his voice.

  “I do. It feels like I have an itch inside, only I can’t scratch it.”

  Nathaniel swallowed hard and felt tears in his eyes. “You can’t die! I won’t accept it!” He glanced wildly about the cabin. “There must be something I can do!”

  “There is.”

  “What?” Nathaniel queried eagerly, leaning forward. “I’ll do anything. What do you want done?”

  “I want you to take Thunder Rider’s hair.”

  Nathaniel recoiled. “You want me to scalp him?”

  “Yep. But kill the son of a bitch first. He might object, otherwise,” Zeke said, and grinned. Suddenly he coughed violently and put his left hand over his mouth. When the fit subsided and he removed his hand, both his lips and his palm were covered with blood.

  “Dear God!” Nathaniel declared. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Get a grip on yourself, Grizzly Killer,” Zeke stated. “This is survival, remember? Either you kill the Kiowa or he’ll kill you.”

  “I won’t leave your side.”

  “You don’t have any choice. Listen, Nate. Thunder Rider was leading that war party. When a warrior leads a raid and doesn’t lose a man, he’s honored by his tribe. If the war party suffers a loss, though, that’s considered bad medicine. Thunder Rider must avenge the warriors we killed and take our scalps back to his tribe to erase his shame.”

  “He won’t live that long,” Nathaniel vowed gruffly.

  “That’s the King spirit,” Zeke said, and erupted into another fit of coughing. Blood spilled from the corners of his mouth and he gasped for air.

  Terrified of losing his uncle, Nathaniel placed his left hand on Zeke’s shoulder, wishing there was something he could do to relieve Zeke’s suffering. “Please, no,” he said.

  A shadow flitted across the window, momentarily blocking off the sunlight.

  Nathaniel tensed, gripped the Hawken in both hands, and moved toward the window. He had to be extremely wary. The Kiowa warrior was out there somewhere, waiting for him to make a mistake. He had to remember everything Zeke had taught him and finish off the warrior quickly. The sooner Thunder Rider was dead, the sooner he could tend to his uncle. He glanced out the window but saw no one.

  There was only one way to get the job done.

  Looking one last time at Zeke, who had closed his eyes and was wheezing, Nathaniel walked to the door. If he stayed inside, the warrior would simply wait him out or set fire to the cabin. He had to go out, to meet Thunder Rider in the open, to draw the Indian to him.

  “Nate?” Zeke said huskily, his eyes still shut.

  “I’m here,” Nathaniel replied.

  A protracted sigh issued from Zeke’s crimson flecked lips. “I’m so—sorry.”

  “Don’t talk. Save your breath. I’ll be right back,” Nathaniel stated. He faced the door, squared his shoulders, and gripped the latch.

  “So sorry,” Zeke repeated.

  Nathaniel opened the door and pulled it inward, standing behind the wooden panel for protection, scrutinizing the terrain between the cabin and the lake. Where would Thunder Rider be hiding? In the trees on either side most likely, he deduced, and wondered if the warrior possessed another lance or bow. He heard a faint scratching noise and stiffened. What was that?

  The scratching ceased.

  “Never expected this,” Zeke said.

  Girding his courage, Nathaniel slipped outside and flattened against the outer wall. The air felt cool and clammy on his face, and he realized he’d been sweating profusely. He looked to the right and the left, cocked the Hawken, and edged to the southeast corner.

  Somewhere in the forest a bird was singing.

  The ducks and geese were swimming sedately on the lake.

  Off to the south stood a solitary black-tailed doe.

  Who would guess that death lurked in the trees? Nathaniel thought, then frowned at his lapse in concentration. To survive he must focus all of his attention on the present. He must be guided by his eyes and ears and act on impulse rather than reason.

  Where was Thunder Rider?

  Nathaniel studied the forest, checking every tree, every boulder, any place the warrior might be hiding. Another thought occurred to him and gave him pause.

  What if Thunder Rider had obtained a rifle?

  He dismissed the idea as unlikely. If the Kiowa had a rifle, Thunder Rider would have used it instead of a lance. Or so he hoped. After a minute, satisfied the warrior was not on that side of the cabin, Nathaniel moved to the northeast corner. Again he scrutinized the tall timber, and again he failed to detect the Indian.

  A loud groan came from inside the cabin.

  Nathaniel frowned and stepped back toward the doorway, thinking of Zeke alone and in exquisite agony. Uncertainty seized him, and he wavered between staying outside and searching for the warrior or going in to comfort his uncle. Distracted by his thoughts, he scarcely noticed when a few pieces of dirt or splinters of wood fell onto his shoulders. Not until a flake landed on his nose did he finally look up, and by then it was too late.

  Because he had found Thunder Rider.

  Uttering a piercing screech, a knife clutched in his right hand, the Kiowa warrior launched himself from the roof.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nathaniel tried to bring the Hawken to bear, sweeping the barrel upward, but the Indian’s hurtling form struck the rifle and sent it flying even as Thunder Rider landed on top of his shoulders, driving Nathaniel forward, away from the cabin. He felt the weight of the warrior on his back, felt a hand brutally yank on his hair, and the force
of the impact knocked him to his knees. He arced his body down, lowering his forehead to the ground, attempting to flip the Indian off. He succeeded.

  Thunder Rider hit the grass and rolled, displaying the reflexes of a panther. He leaped to his feet, still brandishing the knife, a wicked grin twisting his countenance, apparently confident of victory.

  A shade slower in rising, Nathaniel clawed for his right pistol. His fingers were just closing on the grip when the warrior came at him again, slashing that gleaming blade back and forth, forcing him to retreat and to release the pistol or have his hand sliced open.

  Thunder Rider vented a war whoop and sprang.

  Frantically backpedaling to evade the knife, Nathaniel abruptly bumped into the cabin wall. He started to dodge to the right, intending to dart inside, but somehow the warrior anticipated his move and skipped between the door and him. Frustrated, he retreated toward the northeast corner, never turning his back to the Indian for fear of being knifed. He managed only four strides when the unforeseen transpired.

  He tripped.

  Nathaniel felt an object under his left heel and began to lose his balance. He threw his arms out, flapping them in an effort to stay upright, and in that instant when he was most vulnerable, the warrior pounced.

  Thunder Rider lowered his head and charged, his left hand going for his victim’s throat, his right arm swinging the knife in a vicious arc.

  Flailing recklessly as he fell, Nathaniel blocked the knife swing. But he couldn’t prevent the warrior’s left hand from clamping onto his throat, and he landed on his back with the Kiowa astride his chest and the knife already spearing in at his neck. His eyes wide, he snatched at the Indian’s wrist and held on for precious life, all the while prying at the fingers on his throat, trying to breathe.

  A feral gleam lit up the warrior’s eyes. His maniacal thirst for revenge had supplanted all conscious thought. He lived only to kill the men who had slain his fellows, and he would achieve his goal or perish in the attempt.

  Nathaniel experienced more difficulty in breathing. He couldn’t tear the Indian’s fingers from his throat, and the razor point of the knife was slowly descending closer and closer. If he didn’t break free in the next few seconds, he would die. And so would Zeke if he wasn’t already dead.

  Ezekiel!

  The thought of his dying, helpless uncle spurred Nathaniel into action. He bucked and thrashed, then drove his right knee up into the warrior’s back. Once. Twice. And again for good measure, and on the third blow the Kiowa’s visage contorted in pain and Thunder Rider threw himself to the right. Nathaniel heaved to his feet, his left hand finding the left pistol and drawing as he rose.

  The warrior also leaped erect.

  Nathaniel pointed the pistol at Thunder Rider and cocked the hammer. He saw the warrior’s look of stunned surprise, and he allowed himself the luxury of a smile, knowing he had won, knowing he was about to pay the Kiowa back in kind for Zeke. And then he squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Except for the ticking sound of the flint, absolutely nothing happened.

  The pistol had misfired.

  Thunder Rider vented a triumphant scream and closed in again, batting the pistol from his foe’s hand with the blade of his knife.

  Nathaniel recovered quickly and took several swift steps toward the northeast corner. His gaze alighted on the rifle, lying at the base of the cabin wall, and he angled for it, diving and gripping the barrel in both hands. He twisted onto his side and saw the warrior already in midair, that glistening blade extended, and he did the only thing he could. He swung the Hawken like a club, whipping the heavy stock in a circle, catching the Indian full on the face, the wood crushing Thunder Rider’s nostrils and the force of the blow knocking the Indian to the ground. Nathaniel adjusted his grip and pressed the rifle to his right shoulder, about to fire.

  The Kiowa warrior rolled to the right, then surged to his feet and did the unexpected. He threw his knife.

  Nathaniel jerked his head to the right, but it wasn’t enough to completely dodge the weapon. The blade bit into his left temple and sliced open a shallow groove, causing a lancing pang in his head. He ignored the feeling and sighted on the Indian’s head, smack between the eyes.

  Thunder Rider shrieked and attacked one more time.

  Cooly, calmly, Nathaniel fired, wondering in the back of his mind if using the rifle like a club might have damaged the gun in some way, if it would misfire as the pistol had done. He needn’t have worried. The Hawken belched smoke and lead, and never in all his life had Nathaniel heard any sound as sweet as the sharp retort of the rifle.

  The ball struck the warrior at the top of the nose and snapped his head back, spinning him in his tracks. He stopped and blinked once or twice, as if astounded at the outcome, and slowly sank to his knees, then pitched onto his stomach, his arms outflung.

  Nathaniel took a deep breath, striving to soothe his suddenly fluttering nerves. Now that the fight was over, his blood seemed to be racing through his body of its own volition. He stared at the lifeless warrior and dropped the Hawken, his hands trembling.

  What was wrong with him?

  Why couldn’t he concentrate?

  An unexpected exhaustion made Nathaniel slump onto his back for a few seconds. He stared at the blue sky and spotted an eagle soaring far, far overhead. Putting his palms on the ground, he pushed himself up and stood. His knees were unaccountably wobbly and he leaned on the cabin for support.

  A pool of blood was forming under Thunder Rider’s head.

  Nathaniel gazed at the warrior for a full minute. He’d killed again. How many did that make now? There had been the man with Gant at the Republican River. There had been that Indian during the battle on the hill. Maybe several Indians. So he’d slain at least three men, perhaps more, since leaving St. Louis. To his pleasant surprise, he did not feel any degree of remorse this time. Thunder Rider had needed killing.

  It was as simple as that.

  His strength returning, Nathaniel pivoted and hastened into the cabin. He almost cried out when he saw his uncle lying on the floor.

  Ezekiel had collapsed onto his left side, his hands clasping the lance. Blood caked his chin and neck and coated his hands.

  “Zeke!” Nathaniel shouted, reaching his uncle in a bound and kneeling alongside him.

  There was no response.

  Nathaniel leaned over and gingerly touched his uncle’s chest. Relief brought moisture to his eyes when Zeke’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Nate? Is that you?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “He won’t be bothering us ever again.”

  Zeke coughed lightly. “Where’s the scalp you promised me?”

  “I—I haven’t taken it yet.”

  “No hurry, I reckon,” Zeke said. His voice rasped when he spoke, and tiny red bubbles formed on his lips.

  Overcome with emotion at the impending loss of his uncle. Nathaniel placed his right hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “Please don’t die.”

  “I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “There must be something I can do!”

  “There is. Take me outdoors.”

  “What?”

  Zeke twisted his head a few inches, grimacing with the effort. “I don’t want to die in a building. Please, Nate. Carry me outside.”

  A knot seemed to have formed in Nathaniel’s throat. He nodded and eased his arms under his uncle, then straightened, his face turning red from the strain, trying to be as gentle as possible. “Where outside?”

  “Anywhere I can see the mountains.”

  Nathaniel conveyed his uncle out the door and several yards into the open, then tenderly deposited Ezekiel on the cool grass, laying the frontiersman down on his left side so Zeke could gaze to the south and see Long’s Peak.

  “Thank you, nephew.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “You can listen.”

/>   “Why don’t you save your breath?” Nathaniel suggested, sinking onto his right knee.

  “For what? Eternity?”

  Nathaniel bowed his head.

  “I have to tell you,” Zeke said. “You need to know about the treasure.”

  “I don’t care about the treasure now,” Nathaniel stated. and he meant it. What did wealth matter when he was about to lose a man he had grown to deeply respect and love?

  Zeke, strangely, smiled. “That’s good. Because there isn’t any.”

  “What?”

  “There isn’t any treasure, at least not in the way you think there is.”

  Confused, his brow furrowed, Nathaniel bent over his uncle, trying to read Zeke’s expression. “I don’t understand. You told me there’s a treasure. And you had all those gold nuggets.”

  “If you trap beaver in these mountains long enough, you’ll find a few nuggets too. As for the greatest treasure in the world, I’ve already shared it with you.”

  “You have?”

  “Look at those mountains,” Zeke said, then added forcefully when his nephew didn’t comply, “Look at them, Nate!”

  Nathaniel stared at the majestic peaks, confounded by the revelation, at a loss for words.

  “Now look at the lake,” Zeke directed. “Do it.”

  Shifting on his knee, Nathaniel gazed at the sparkling water.

  “Take a good look at this valley, Nate. Look at the wildlife, at the deer and the elk and the other game. Think about the fact that all this is now yours. My cabin, my rifle, my clothes, everything I leave to you,” Zeke said. “And I leave you with one more thing. The greatest treasure in the world. The treasure that I found when I came out to the Rockies. The treasure I wanted to share with the only relative I give a damn about. The treasure I wanted to share with you, Nate.”

  Nathaniel looked down. “What treasure?”

  “Freedom.”

  Dazed, Nathaniel shook his head and pressed his right hand to his forehead. “You brought me all the way out here to give me something I already had?”

  “Did you? Do you call sitting behind a desk all day, scribbling numbers with a pencil and taking orders from a man who probably considers himself your better, freedom? Do you call marrying a woman who is more interested in money than in your happiness freedom? Do you call letting your life be run by others freedom?”