Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  “There comes a time when a man must stand and fight if he is to be worthy of being called a man,” Nate said. “My belongings, my horses, and my guns were taken from me because of Invincible One. The only way I will get them back is if I show your people that my medicine is more powerful than his.”

  “You will be killed,” Gray Badger signed sadly, “and then I will be all alone again.”

  “We will find your father.”

  “Why?” the boy responded. “If he cared for me, he would have searched for me before now.”

  “Maybe Invincible One would not let him,” Nate speculated. “Until we learn the truth, you must trust in your father to do what is right.” He gave the young Crow a pat of encouragement on the head, but Gray Badger was beyond being cheered by words or gestures.

  “I want you to stay here until I return,” Nate signed. “If I am not back by dark, you will be on your own.”

  “I do not want you to leave me.”

  “I have no choice,” Nate signed, and ran northward. He assumed Pierce would be helping the Crows drive off the Utes, and since it sounded as if heavy fighting still raged on the north side of the village, he figured that was where he would find the renegade. He passed a few bunches of women and children who either fled or cowered in brush until he had gone by.

  As the tumult increased, Nate slowed and angled toward the lodges. He came to a log and hunkered behind it to survey the landscape ahead. Five or six of the teepees were in flames. Dozens of Crows and Utes lay scattered about, some moving, some not, some groaning or wailing, others bearing their wounds in stoic silence.

  Beyond the northernmost dwellings a running fight was underway. The Utes were retreating in an orderly manner, pockets of them keeping the Crows at bay while the majority gained ground on their vengeful pursuers.

  The raid had been different than most, Nate reflected as he advanced again. Usually a warring tribe conducted a lightning foray, fleeing before many lives were lost. Some tribes considered it the very worst of calamities for a single brave to die on a raid. But this time the Utes had been out for blood, and hadn’t seemed to care about losing many of their own. Nate didn’t know what to make of their strategy.

  About sixty yards away a half-dozen Utes were putting up stiff resistance against twice that many Crows. Arrows and lead flew back and forth.

  Nate stopped at a fir tree, braced the Hawken against the trunk, and took precise aim on a Ute with a bow. His shot felled the man as the Ute started to release a shaft. Nate was reloading when the Crows made a concerted rush and put the Utes to flight.

  Treading warily forward along the tree line, Nate sought sign of Jacob Pierce. He was beginning to think Pierce had elected to remain out of the fray when a familiar raspy voice bellowing orders in the Crow tongue drew him toward a jumbled maze of downed timber. Somewhere in there, he knew, was the rogue.

  Alert for Utes, Crows, and Pierce, Nate cautiously clambered over downed trees and crept through dense growth. The acrid scent of gunsmoke hung heavy in the air. He found a dead, scalped Ute, then another with eyes gouged out. From the trampled vegetation and puddles of fresh blood, it was clear a ferocious clash had taken place.

  Presently, through the trees, Nate saw several Crows stalking to the northeast. Pierce wasn’t among them. Nate moved to the left, around a large stump, and halted, his blood chilling, as thirty feet off the killer appeared. Pierce shouted more instructions, then worked at reloading a rifle.

  Nate didn’t dare miss the golden opportunity fate had presented. He tucked the Hawken to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and pulled back the hammer with his thumb. Very carefully, he fixed the front bead on Pierce’s back, and hesitated. Shooting a man from behind was a cowardly act, plain and simple. He wanted Pierce to turn, wanted Pierce to know what was coming.

  The Invincible One finished loading and straightened. He shouted, started to walk deeper into the woods. In another few steps he would be lost in the vegetation.

  Nate sucked in his breath, steadied the Hawken, and yelled, “Over here, you son of a bitch!” Pierce, predictably, whirled, and the instant the bead settled on the center of the killer s chest, Nate squeezed the trigger. He grinned as Jacob Pierce was lifted from his feet and flung into high grass.

  “So much for being invincible!” Nate said under his breath. Dashing behind the stump, he reloaded, then glided toward the spot where Pierce had fallen. He couldn’t wait to show the Crows that no one deserved so lofty a name, and to persuade them to return all of the goods stolen from his trapping party. He would take all of McNair’s possessions to his friend’s Flathead wife. Curry’s things he would sell and send to the greenhorn’s next of kin.

  Nate came to where Pierce had been standing and looked down, expecting to find drops of blood. There were none. He went further, into the grass, to where the body should have been, but there was no body, just an impression in the grass where something heavy had fallen.

  “What in the world?” Nate blurted out, and raised his head to scour the area. The glint of sunlight off metal saved his life, for it gave him the fraction of a second warning he needed to dive to the right. A rifle boomed and the slug whizzed overhead.

  Nate rolled in among small pines and rose partway. He was amazed Pierce had survived. At that range Nate rarely missed. But obviously he had, or else the ball had merely grazed the killer and not drawn much blood. Either way, he intended to put a stop to Pierce’s bloody career then and there.

  Bearing to the right, Nate sank onto his elbows and knees and crawled. Pierce would need up to a minute to reload, giving Nate time to sneak in close enough for a fatal shot. He snaked through the pines to more grass, through the grass to a tall bush. Tucking both knees up under him, he rose high enough to catch sight of someone moving through waist-high weeds twenty feet away. He took a hasty bead, but never saw the figure clearly enough to tell who it was, and held his fire.

  Lowering to the ground, Nate crawled to the northeast, to a pine. He stood in the shelter of the wide trunk and peered out. The wily Pierce was nowhere to be seen. Nate wondered if the renegade was hiding somewhere, waiting for whoever had taken the shot to show. Glancing down, he saw a short piece of broken limb and picked it up. The trick he was about to try was as old as the hills, but sometimes still worked.

  Nate hurled the stick as far as he could to the south, then brought the Hawken to his shoulder while scanning the vegetation on all sides. The stick hit with a thud, rustling some weeds. Almost immediately a dark shape materialized beside a spruce to the west and the man shot at the weeds. The shooter’s face was in shadow, but a stray ray of waning sunlight bathed his head, revealing a beaver cap. Nate aimed and fired. The Hawken belched a cloud of gunsmoke that momentarily hid Pierce. By the time the smoke cleared, Pierce was gone.

  Pressing his back to the pine, Nate reloaded rapidly. He had no idea whether his shot had been accurate, and there was only one way to find out. Crouching, he raced in a half circle that brought him up on the spruce from the rear. He probed the grass at its base and nearly cursed aloud. Again there was no body!

  Mystified, Nate cat-walked to the left, to a small boulder. Squatting, he examined the Hawken’s sights, but they were fine. He couldn’t understand how he could have missed a second time. A troubling notion, unbidden, filled his head: What if Jacob Pierce really was invincible? He shrugged, dismissing the idea as lunacy. Yet how else could he account for the rogue’s deliverance? He had never thought to inquire why the Crows believed Pierce to be immortal, and they must have had a good reason.

  Nate might have stayed there pondering for minutes had a twig not snapped. Twisting, he gazed in the direction the sound came from, but saw no one. He propped the rifle on the top of the boulder, and pulled the hammer to be ready in case it was Pierce or an Ute. Then he thought he saw something move, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Brush suddenly parted, revealing a buckskin-clad forearm. For a minute nothing else happened. At last the forearm moved
, parting the brush wider, and Jacob Pierce showed himself from the waist up. He was staring north of Nate’s hiding place, at a thicket he evidently believed harbored Nate.

  This time Nate had the butcher right where Nate wanted him. He willed himself to calm down, to still his speeding pulse. He took twice as long as he normally would to set the bead on the exact middle of Pierce’s torso. His finger delicately touched the cool metal trigger, and he held the Hawken rock steady for all of five seconds before he fired.

  Pierce clutched at his chest and fell backward into the brush. Nate sprinted madly toward the spot, afraid he would get there and find Pierce had once more evaporated into thin air. He was yards off when he saw the foot, and smiled. Plunging into the brush, he stood over Pierce and beamed in elation at his victory. Only belatedly did he see there was no blood. Only belatedly did he see that Pierce still held a rifle. He leaned down to pry the gun from the dead man’s fingers, and as his fingers closed on the barrel Pierce’s eyes snapped wide open and the killer’s other hand closed on his ankle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Total paralyzing shock held Nate King in place, and Jacob Pierce was quick to take advantage. The killer gave a vicious wrench, causing Nate’s leg to sweep out from under him. As Nate crashed down, Pierce shifted, trying to bring his rifle to bear. In sheer reflex Nate swung the Hawken, and swatted the renegade’s rifle aside just as the gun discharged.

  They both rose to their knees. Pierce growled and attempted to smash Nate in the head, but again Nate parried. Angered by his failure, Pierce began raining blows down in a furious attempt to smash Nate’s skull to a pulp. The two barrels tinged together repeatedly. Then, swiveling, Nate lanced the muzzle of the Hawken into the killer’s gut, doubling Pierce over in sputtering agony.

  Seizing the initiative, Nate gained his knees and drew back the Hawken to club his foe. But Pierce was far from defenseless, and he abruptly let go of his rifle and leaped, clamping his arms fast on Nate’s chest and bearing Nate to the ground. Pierce grabbed the Hawken, and they struggled mightily for possession. Nate was about to wrest it loose when the killer kneed him in the groin.

  Racked by a welling wave of anguish, Nate sagged, weakening. He clung to the Hawken for dear life as Pierce tugged and jerked. The renegade bent toward him to get a better purchase on the rifle, and the moment Pierce did, Nate rammed his forehead into the other’s face. Pierce slumped, blood oozing from his nose, and Nate rammed him again.

  Jacob Pierce lost his grip on the rifle and fell to one side. Nate would have sorely liked to bash in the man’s brains, but his groin still throbbed abominably, the misery rendering him too feeble to lift the Hawken. He fell back onto his haunches, and resisted an instinctive impulse to bend over and cup his privates. He had to keep fighting! He mustn’t give in to the pain or he would die!

  Pierce was slowly pushing off the ground. Nate forced his legs to cooperate, and beat the rogue to the punch. Swaying, he held the rifle as if it were a club and streaked it overhead. Pierce glanced up just as Nate swung, and hurled himself aside. The stock clipped the killer on the temple, stunning him.

  Nate took a shambling stride and lifted the Hawken again. Pierce looked up in horror, aware of Nate’s intention but incapable of doing a thing.

  “Here’s where I end it,” Nate said. He looked into Pierce’s eyes and saw a sight that gave him deep, personal satisfaction: fear, raw, unbridled fear. He began his swing.

  Unexpectedly, the underbrush crackled and three Crows were there. They leaped on Nate, knocking him off his feet, trapping him under them as they smashed him flat. He hit one with the stock, and was punched in the cheek by another. In concert they held his arms down and the Hawken was ripped from his grasp. Nate kneed the warrior astride his chest, then tried to kick the man on his right.

  From out of the woods dashed a fourth Crow, holding a fusee. Cocking the trade gun, he touched the barrel to Nate’s nose and barked words in his tongue.

  Nate didn’t need a translator. He stopped resisting and was yanked erect. He saw a tall Crow offer Pierce a hand, but Pierce angrily slapped it away and stood on his own.

  “I’m making you a promise here and now, King. Before the sun comes up tomorrow, you’re gone beaver.”

  Nate stared at the renegade’s shirt, looking for blood or bullet holes. All he found were two tiny rips level with the sternum.

  “Did you hear me?” Pierce snapped when he received no answer. “Don’t you have anything to say?

  “How?” Nate asked.

  “How what?”

  “I put three balls into you. Had you dead to rights each and every time. Yet there aren’t any wounds. How can that be?”

  Some of Pierce’s former bluster returned. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you rotten varmint! But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I tell you. The secret of my medicine goes to my grave with me.”

  At a command from the Invincible One, the Crows shoved Nate toward the village. By now the battle was over, the attackers having been routed, but not before wreaking a terrible toll on the defenders. Crows were going from body to body, helping hurt friends and taking the few Utes found alive back to the village.

  Halfway to the village the four warriors escorting Nate were approached by several others and a heated debate broke out. Nate had no idea why they were arguing, but soon suspected he was the cause when several pointed at him while making statements. Then Pierce appeared and sent the newcomers packing. As they left, the Invincible One spun and jabbed Nate with a finger.

  “You think you’re so damn clever, don’t you?”

  “I have my moments,” Nate quipped, when in truth he didn’t have the vaguest notion what Pierce was talking about.

  “Well, it’s not going to work. I won’t let you turn these stupid savages against me, not when I’m just a few trapping seasons away from being one of the richest men in the country. Your killing a few Utes won’t change a thing.”

  Nate was ushered onward, giving him time to reflect on the comment. Apparently some of the Crows had seen him trying to save Gray Badger from the Ute in the village, or else had witnessed him shooting the Ute with the bow. If word spread, it would reinforce the case of those Crows who wanted him spared.

  Nate reached the edge of the trees, and observed women and children returning in droves. Mournful cries filled the air as loved ones were found lying in pools of blood. One elderly woman knelt beside her slain son, beating her temples with her fists. The next moment she had taken her son’s knife, poised it over her hand, and sliced off one of her fingers as a token of the depth of her grief.

  At the small lodge Nate received a surprise. Instead of being tied, he was simply pushed inside, and one of the Crows addressed him in sign language.

  “We will leave you on your honor, Grizzly Killer, if you will promise not to escape.”

  “Why would you do this for me?” Nate asked. “We have heard how you fought to save the young boy. We know now that you are not the enemy Invincible One would have us believe you are.”

  “Then I give you my word,” Nate signed, “but on one condition.”

  “Speak.”

  “Tell everyone you meet that I am a friend and hold no ill will against the Crows for the way I have been treated. It is Invincible One who is to blame, for he has filled your heads with lies and deceived you into thinking he cannot be killed.”

  “We have seen with our own eyes that weapons have no more effect on him than drops of rain.”

  “He tricks all of you.”

  “How?”

  “That I do not know, but I will before too long.”

  The Crow grunted. “I am Big Hail. Two Humps is my friend. I will do as you want, and so will some of the others. At the council later I will speak in your behalf.”

  “If Big Hail does this for me, then is he my friend as well,” Nate signed, and received a warm smile. He watched the warriors trot off, and took a seat just inside the entrance, his shoulder leaning on the lodge. The events
of the past hour or so had left him greatly fatigued, and he dearly wanted to lie down and sleep. Yet he couldn’t, not when he didn’t know if he would wake up again; he wouldn’t put it past Pierce to slit his throat while he slept.

  The general lamentation had grown loud enough to be heard a mile off. As was typical among most tribes, the women were the ones who expressed their grief vocally. The men reflected their sorrow in sad countenances, but did not cry out.

  Both sexes indulged in other practices as well. One was the chopping off of fingers from the first joint up, as the elderly woman had done. Another custom was for mourners to take arrows and lightly stab themselves in a straight line across their foreheads from ear to ear. The men also pricked their arms, legs, and torsos, and some did it so many times their bodies were covered with thin scarlet rivulets. The females made a point of smearing their faces with blood, a tradition that demanded they must not wash until the blood had completely faded.

  A few chose less painful methods. Shaving the hair close to the head was done, but infrequently. The war horses of chiefs and prominent warriors were also shaved, and the manes and tails wrapped in bundles and buried with the deceased, it being a Crow belief that the hairs would turn into horses in the spirit realm.

  Presently all the wounded Utes, seven in number, were brought into the village. And then Nate was treated to an uncommon spectacle as the Crows took revenge on their enemies. Easterners would have branded the treatment the Utes received as barbaric in the extreme, but the Crows did no worse than would have been done to them had the situation been reversed.

  The Utes were laid out in a row and completely surrounded. The Crows held the first captive down while one of their number wielded a razor-sharp knife with marvelous dexterity. The Ute’s ears were sliced off and dangled in front of his eyes. Then his nose was chopped off, and each finger and toe, one at a time. He was scalped prior to having his stomach slit and his intestines pulled out. Last, the Crow gouged the Ute’s eyes from their sockets and threw them to the onlookers, who played catch with them until the novelty wore off.