“You don’t?” Shakespeare had assumed his wife was paying Lou a visit. “We’ll ask Lou if she’s seen her.”
The quiet, the smoke rising from the chimney, had eased much of Zach’s concern. He was annoyed more than anything, rankled that Lou had left the front door open yet again. Fifty yards out, he suddenly drew rein. “I’m going to teach my wife a lesson. Stay with the horses.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? Why stir the hornets when they’re being peaceable?”
“There’s only one hornet, and its high time she learned that leaving that door open could get her in trouble someday.” Zach handed the reins over and turned to jog to the cabin.
“Be gentle, son,” Shakespeare cautioned.
Making no more sound than the wind, Zach gave the chicken coop a wide berth so he wouldn’t set the hens to clucking. He came to the front wall and crouched. Grinning, he cat-stepped to the open door. It would serve Lou right, his scaring her silly. Taking a deep breath, he bounded inside while simultaneously giving voice to a roar worthy of a grizzly.
No one was there.
Scratching his head, Zach backed out. He beckoned to McNair, then scoured the shore and the forest.
Shakespeare didn’t need to ask what had happened. He was off the mare before it came to a stop. “Maybe we should fire a few shots in the air. It’ll bring them on the run.”
“Good idea.” Zach went to raise his rifle, then froze. “God in heaven,” he breathed.
Shakespeare turned, and thought his heart would burst in his chest.
From out of the woods, her face smeared with blood, staggered Blue Water Woman.
Louisa King had felt overwhelming fear before. There was the time Zach was nearly killed by a grizzly; the time the army took him into custody and he was put on trial for murder; the time a wolverine tried to kill them. Other instances came to mind. She should have been used to it, but she wasn’t. The fear that gripped her as she was being carried off by the warrior who had invaded their valley chilled her to the marrow.
Lou knew that Zach and Shakespeare would be gone for most of the day. She couldn’t count on rescue from them. She had seen Blue Water Woman brutally struck with a rock, had seen her friend collapse and blood stream over her brow and face, and felt certain she was dead. With Nate and Winona gone, and the Nansusequa off after buffalo, there was no one to come to her rescue.
Her only hope was that Zach could track her captor down. But if Zach and Shakespeare didn’t get back until dark, they’d have to wait until morning to come after her, unless they used torches. By then she would be miles away.
Presently the warrior came to a stream fed by a glacier.
Lou held her breath. Would he cross it or use it to hide his tracks?
The Outcast drew rein in the middle of the stream and shifted to look behind him. He grunted in satisfaction. There was no sign of pursuit yet. He rode up the stream toward the mountains, counting on the swift-flowing water to wash away most of the pinto’s prints. Most, but not all.
Lou’s heart sank. This was exactly what she dreaded. Now Zach and Shakespeare would have a harder time finding her. She closed her eyes and smothered a slight tremble. Ordinarily she was as brave as the next woman, but she was in dire straits. She figured the warrior was taking her to his village, where she would spend the rest of her days as his blanket warmer.
Like hell. Lou would slit her wrists before letting another man touch her. But then she thought of the new life taking shape within her, and her eyes moistened as she realized that she didn’t have it in her to do away with herself if it meant doing away with the baby, too.
The Outcast studied his captive. He was impressed by how quiet she was. Most woman would scream or be hysterical. This little one, he mused, had exceptional courage. It reminded him of her. Again pain filled him. Not physical pain, but the deep searing pain of raw emotion. It occurred to him that he had thought of her more since he came across this young white woman than he had in many moons.
The Outcast told himself his feelings were to be expected. Such a loss, the loss of someone who meant everything, someone loved and adored and cherished beyond all others, could never be forgotten. The best he could do, the best any person could do, was to hold the hurt at bay by piling rocks of denial around his heart so that the hurt could not touch it. The problem, of course, was that piles of rocks always had gaps in them, thin gaps, yes, but gaps where a stray feeling or an unguarded thought could slip through.
A tiny voice in the Outcast’s mind told him to spare himself the misery. All he had to do was draw his knife and slit the white woman’s throat. One slash and her life was over. One slash and his hurt was banished. He placed his hand on the hilt.
Lou opened her eyes and looked at her captor. She wished she spoke his tongue or he spoke hers. She would beg him to set her free so she could go back to her home and to those she loved most in the world. She saw him give a slight start, and wondered why.
The Outcast was about to draw his knife when his captive fixed her eyes on him. Such remarkable eyes, as blue as the lake. Mute appeal was mirrored in their depths. An appeal so potent, it caught him about his heart with a pelt of the softest fur. His head swirled, and he hissed in annoyance. “Stop looking at me,” he said, but she didn’t understand him and kept on doing it. He raised his hand to smack her.
Lou turned away. She wondered why he was so mad. It didn’t bode well. Men prone to get angry were also often violent. He might beat her if she wasn’t careful. In despair she sagged across the pinto, her cheek against its side. Her belly was starting to hurt, and that worried her. It couldn’t be good for her to be over the horse this way.
She gazed off through the trees, longing for a glimpse of her cabin, but they had come too far to the west. Soon, they would start to climb into the high country. It puzzled her. The only way out of the valley, as far as she knew, was to the east. Why was her captor heading west?
The Outcast scanned the valley rim. To the northwest was the glacier. To the south were peaks so high, they brushed the clouds. Ahead, to the west, were forested slopes that rose in tiers to rocky ramparts. He would set his traps there.
Inwardly, the Outcast smiled. Killing the breed and the old white man would take his mind off her. He had a lot to do and he might as well start now. Reining out of the stream and up the bank, he came to a stop at a stand of saplings and slid down. The saplings were ideal for what he had in mind.
Lou raised her head. Hope flared anew. She’d figured he would stay in the stream for miles. That was the smart thing to do if he wanted to shake off pursuit. She saw him take the rope and cut a couple of short lengths. Then he moved off into the undergrowth.
He had left her alone.
Instantly, Lou shifted to try to slide off the pinto. But her legs were partly numb and she couldn’t quite manage it. Suddenly her captor was back. He had a downed tree limb, which he broke into pieces. Each piece was no thicker than his middle finger. One was about a foot long, the other six inches, the third even shorter. As she watched, he sat and drew his knife and started cutting on first one and then the other.
Lou would have to wait for another chance to try to escape. Curious what he was up to, she watched him intently.
The Outcast sharpened the sticks. At the opposite ends of the long one and the short one he cut notches. A rock served to pound the long stick into the ground. Stepping to a thin sapling he had chosen, the Outcast reached overhead and climbed. He used only his arms. Under his weight the tree began to bend. As it bent, his feet sank lower and lower until they were on the ground again. The sapling was now curved like a bow.
The Outcast tied one end of the rope to the sapling, about a third of the way from the top. Holding the rope securely so the tree couldn’t snap back up, he tied the other end of the rope to the short stick, then knelt beside the stake.
Horror gripped Lou. She had divined what he was up to. Zach and Nate used the same trick to kill rabbits and the like. “God, no!
” she exclaimed through her gag.
The Outcast glanced at her.
“Why are you doing this?” Lou struggled against her bonds.
The Outcast patted the sapling. He didn’t understand a word the woman was saying, but he understood the worry on her face. “I do what I must. You and your man and your friends are my enemies.”
The Outcast aligned the notch in the short stick with the notch in the stake, setting them so the short stick would release if it was bumped. Rising, he took the third sharpened stick and carefully tied it to the bent sapling at the height of a mounted man. He cast about until he found pine limbs that suited his purpose and set them so they hid the rope and the stake. Now all that was needed was for one of his pursuers to ride by and jar the limb that hid the short stick. The sapling would whip up and impale the rider.
Lou’s mouth went dry. She had realized the awful truth. He wasn’t taking her to his village. He had no interest in her other than as bait. He was using her to lure Zach and Shakespeare to their deaths.
Chapter Nine
Shakespeare McNair was in a simmering rage. At his age it wasn’t often that his emotions ran out of control, but the horrid sight of his devoted wife staggering out of the forest with blood oozing down her forehead and over her face tore a screech of pure fury from Shakespeare’s throat.
Zach was younger by more than fifty years and considered fleet of foot, but it was Shakespeare who reached Blue Water Woman first, Shakespeare who caught her as she collapsed, Shakespeare who gently lowered her to the ground and tenderly touched her cheek.
“God, no.”
Zach hunkered on the other side of her. “How bad is she?” he asked.
Shakespeare was probing with his fingertips to find out. She had been struck; that much was obvious. He found a deep gash above her hairline. It was the only wound, but it was enough. The blood would not stop. “We must get her inside.”
“I’ll help.” Zach was near frantic about Lou, but Blue Water Woman needed immediate attention.
They carried her into the cabin. Zach was all for putting her on the bed, but Shakespeare set her down on the bearskin rug in front of the stone fireplace. Zach brought a washcloth and Shakespeare pressed it to the wound to stanch the flow.
“Water, son. Hot water, as quick as you can.”
“Leave it to me.”
Shakespeare bent and whispered, “Precious? Can you hear me? It’s your Snowball.” Those were the endearments they used most when they cuddled.
Blue Water Woman’s eyelids fluttered. Her eyes opened but didn’t stay open. She weakly stirred and managed to say, “Husband? Is that you? I hurt so much.”
Shakespeare clasped her hand in both of his. A lump clogged his throat and he could barely see her for his tears. “I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry. I’ll tend you and bandage you and get you to our cabin.”
“Lou,” Blue Water Woman said.
“What about her?”
“She’s been taken. I saw her tied and gagged.” Blue Water Woman found it hard to think. “I saw who took her.”
“How many are there?”
“One.”
“That’s all?” Shakespeare was relieved. He’d imagined an entire war party. “Zach will head out after them in a just a bit. Don’t you worry. He’ll find them and bring her back.”
Blue Water Woman licked her lips. So simple an act, yet it took all her strength. “Shakespeare?”
“Don’t talk. Lie still. You need to rest.”
Struggling to stay conscious, Blue Water Woman got out, “This is important. The warrior who took Lou…”
“What about him?”
“He is a Blood.”
Shakespeare was surprised. The Bloods were part of what the whites called the Blackfoot Confederacy, an alliance had that controlled the northern plains and parts of southern Canada since long before Lewis and Clark. The three principal tribes were the Blackfeet, the Piegans, and the Bloods—at least those were the names the whites gave them. Their real names, the names by which they called themselves, were the Siksika, the Piikani, and the Kainai.
The Bloods—or Kainai—were so called because of the habit they had of rubbing red ochre on their faces. They were a proud, fearless people, fiercely protective of their land. Shakespeare had had dealings with them in the past, before they came to distrust and dislike the white man and drove all whites from their land or slew them.
Shakespeare scratched his beard, pondering. King Valley was far from their usual haunts. Bloods hardly ever ventured this deep into the mountains. For a lone warrior to be there was unthinkable; there had to be more. He reasoned that the Blood his wife had seen must be part of a larger war party.
“Husband?”
“I’m here.” Shakespeare squeezed her hand and kissed her on the cheek, not caring one whit that he got her blood on his lips.
“I am tired,” Blue Water Woman said. In truth, she had never felt so weak, so drained.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you should be all right in a few days,” Shakespeare predicted. He was sugarcoating her condition to put her at ease. Truth was, she might have internal bleeding. Or, worse, the gash was deeper than it seemed, and the force of the blow had driven bone fragments into her brain.
“If you do not mind, I will sleep now.” Blue Water Woman closed her eyes and a dark mist enveloped her.
Zach came hurrying over. “I kindled the fire and have water on. I can’t stay any longer.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Off you go, then. But you should know: Lou is still alive. She’s been taken by the Bloods.”
A hot sensation spread from Zach’s neck to the top of his head. “I’ll count coup on all of them.”
“Blue Water Woman saw only one, but there must be more.” Shakespeare snagged Zach’s sleeve as Zach turned. “Be careful. The Bloods are good fighters and damn clever. They’ll be expecting someone to come after them. They’ll be ready.”
“They won’t be ready for me,” Zach vowed, and ran out the door in long lopes.
Shakespeare listened to the drum of hooves fade. By rights he should be with the boy, watching his back. But he couldn’t leave Blue Water Woman. Not with her like this. He tenderly touched her chin and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Don’t you die on me. You hear? You’re the love of my life. Our hearts are entwined forever.” He coughed and blinked, and tears trickled down his cheeks. A low moan escaped him.
Shakespeare broke down and sobbed.
The Tunkua descended the slope with the agility of mountain goats and the stamina of Apaches. Powerfully built, their short, muscular bodies lent them superb endurance. They could jog half a day without tiring. This served them well now, as it was a long way from the top of the mountain to the bottom, many leagues of steep slopes and thick woods.
Skin Shredder pushed to descend as low as they could before the sun went down.
They took infrequent rests. When they came to a ridge that afforded a sweeping view of the valley, Skin Shredder raised an arm and the other warriors stopped. Some took out their food bundles to eat. Others gazed about the pristine wonderland, marveling at the abundance of wildlife. Their own valley had much to recommend it, but this valley, the Valley of the Bear People, as they had come to call it of late, was a paradise.
Black-capped chickadees played in the thickets. Grosbeaks frolicked in the pines. Red crossbills winged through the air bobbing their heads and uttering their strange cry of beep-beep-beep. Hummingbirds whizzed and dived. Flocks of small pine siskin flew from stand to stand. Gorgeous tanagers stared at them from high limbs. Jays squawked noisily. Black-and-white magpies added their calls to the chorus.
The evidence of mammals was everywhere. Tracks of elk and shaggy mountain buffalo. The weasel called the valley home. So did the mink and the marten. Mountain sheep could be seen on the heights. Badger burrows dotted open slopes. In the waterways beaver thrived, and in the largest stream, otter. Noisy squirrels sat on pine limbs, chewing nuts
. Others scampered about the ground. Chipmunks would run in fright with their tails high.
There was sign of meat eaters, too. Bear, mountain lion, bobcat. Wolves and foxes. Coyotes were especially numerous.
Back when the Tunkua first came to the mountains, the tribe was delighted when they discovered the valley. It had everything they could want. They’d camped by the lake and held council. Everyone agreed it should be their new home.
But the next day something huge stirred the waters of the lake. All of them saw the water roil, saw a giant form swim just below the surface. A water devil, the older among them called it. Bad medicine.
The second night they heard strange cries. Not the howl of wolves or the yip of coyotes, but ululating wails and fierce roars from the vicinity of the glacier, borne to them by the wind. It filled them with unease. More bad medicine.
The morning of the third day dawned bright and beautiful until it was learned that one of their number was missing. A woman had gone into the forest to gather firewood and hadn’t returned. A search was conducted, with every warrior taking part. The best trackers among them were able to follow her tracks into the woods as far as a small clearing, where they abruptly stopped. There they also found other tracks, huge tracks, tracks unlike any bear but vaguely bearlike, tracks with long claws and narrow heels. The story the tracks told was plain. The woman had entered the clearing and the thing that made the huge tracks rushed out at her. She never got off a cry. Drops of blood told them they would never see her again.
This was the worst medicine of all. Another council was held and this time the tribe decided to move on. It was with reluctance that they climbed the west slopes and filed through a pass into the valley beyond. This other valley proved to be almost as bountiful. There was no lake—but no mysterious water creature, either. There was no glacier—but the nights were not disturbed by hideous cries. Best of all, they stayed there a week and no one disappeared. It became their new home.
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