“Very well,” Flying Hawk suddenly declared, thrusting out his arm and resting his hand on Nate’s shoulder. Then he signed, “Until we find my sister and your horse, we will be as brothers. And perhaps, when this is done, I will go back to my people and tell them the same thing Two Owls did, that not all whites have bad hearts.”
Smiling in gratitude, Nate touched the Ute’s arm. “You will not regret your decision. Between us we will catch False Tongue and make him pay.” He nodded at the fire. “Perhaps you would like some food before we start? I would be happy to share my rabbit.”
“Thank you. I accept,” Flying Hawk replied. He walked off and picked up his bow and arrow, sliding the latter into the quiver on his back. The bow went over his left shoulder. As he came back he pointed at Nate’s wounded shoulder. “I am glad my arrow did not kill you.”
In the act of stepping to his weapons, Nate stopped. “You were the one who shot me?”
“Yes. I tried to get you through the heart but you ran like an antelope.”
“The next time I will try to run slower,” Nate joked. He slid the pistol under his belt, recovered the tomahawk and knife, and squatted by the fire, across from the Ute.
“You took the arrow out all by yourself?” the warrior asked, staring at the wound.
“Yes.”
Flying Hawk folded his arms on top of his knees. “You have much courage. It is a pity most white men are not like you.”
Soon Nate had more chunks of meat roasting over the fire. He picked up the stick he had dropped when the Ute appeared and brushed bits of grass off the pieces of rabbit, then heated them again. Not a word was spoken during the meal. Nate was self-consciously aware that the warrior stared at him the whole time. He, in turn, made it a point to act as natural as he could. Eventually the Ute asked him an unexpected question.
“Will more of your people come to these mountains?”
“Many more, I am afraid. Once the whites who live east of the Great River learn how beautiful and wonderful this land is, they will flock here by the thousands.”
Flying Hawk wiped his greasy fingers on his leggins. “I have been told this would happen but I hope you are wrong. My people, as well as the Cheyennes, the Kiowas, the Sioux, and many other tribes will not let your people drive us off. We will fight to keep our land.”
“I know.”
“On which side will you fight when that happens?”
“I have not given the matter much thought.”
“You should.”
The man had a point, Nate reflected as he doused the fire. What would he do if it came to pass? The mere notion of hordes of settlers spreading out over the plains and the mountains, staking claim to every available square foot of land, was enough to give him the jitters. Part of the appeal the wilderness made to men like him was the virtue of soothing solitude. The vast expanses of shimmering grasslands and towering peaks stirred a man’s soul like no towns or cities ever could. Out here a man could live as he pleased, accountable to no one but himself and his Maker. There weren’t countless laws to obey, countless rules to follow. Freedom— pure, unadulterated freedom—was there for the taking. All that would change once civilization arrived. A man would be at the mercy of politicians, and to Nate’s way of thinking that was a fate worse than death.
With the Hawken tucked under his left arm, he followed the Ute to where the sturdy roan waited. He waited for Flying Hawk to reach down, then swung up behind the warrior.
They rode to the northwest, over hills, through valleys, and around mountains, always on the lookout for tracks. Toward noon they scaled a steep slope, crossed a low saddle, and came out on a splendid high country park lush with spring growth. There Flying Hawk reined up and twisted so Nate could see his hands.
“There is a spring here. We will stop and rest my horse, then go on.”
At the bottom of a cliff on the north side of the park was a crystal-clear pool of ice-cold water. Nate dropped to the ground, walked to the water’s edge, and sank onto all fours to drink. As he lowered his face he happened to glance to his left. His thirst was immediately forgotten. For clearly imbedded in the soft soil were large hoof prints not over a day old. Rising, he signed, “You are closer to your sister than you think. Look at these.”
Flying Hawk’s face lit up like the full moon. He ran his fingers lightly over the tracks, then stood and slowly walked in a half-circle, reading the sign. “Do you think these were made by your horse?”
“I would say so, yes. I know the tracks of my animal as well as I do my own.” Pivoting, Nate gazed the entire length of the park. At the north end reared a seemingly impassable barrier of bleak, barren mountains. Either there was another way out of the park further on, or else Solomon Cain was hiding somewhere near those mountains.
The Ute came to the same conclusion. “We have him, Grizzly Killer. You have brought me luck. After searching for so long I find him this easily.”
“Do not get your hopes too high. As you say, False Tongue is exceedingly clever. Who knows where this trail will lead?”
“We shall see.”
Flying Hawk pulled the roan away from the spring and climbed up. He impatiently gestured for Nate to join him, and at a gallop they rode northward, the roan’s hoofs drumming dully on the thick carpet of grass. Occasionally they saw clear tracks, but for the most part the prints were smudged or partials. Cain, after leaving the spring, had cut catty-corner across the park toward a foreboding mountain crowned by three separate pinnacles of rock that resembled the three prongs of a pitchfork.
They lost the trail at the base of the mountain where the grass gave way to loose rock and hard-packed earth.
The Ute stopped and peered upward. “He must be somewhere up there.”
So it seemed, but Nate couldn’t see why Cain would have picked such a godforsaken spot to hide out. True, plenty of water and grass was readily available in the park. But the oddly sinister mountain, on which not so much as a single weed or blade of grass grew, was fit neither for man nor beast alike. He looked at Flying Hawk, expecting the warrior to begin climbing at any moment, and was startled when he saw the Ute give a barely perceptible shudder.
“I know this place,” Flying Hawk signed. “My people call it the Mountain of Death. No one has ever gone up it and returned.”
Nate straightened and smiled. So that was it! The wily Cain had picked a spot taboo to the Utes, using their primitive superstition to his advantage. “Are there caves on this mountain?” he asked.
“Let us find out.”
The lower portion of the facing slope proved easy for the roan. Above it the going was too steep, compelling them to dismount and walk. Small stones clattered out from under their feet. So did small puffs of dust. Their moccasins were caked by the time they came to the mouth of a ravine. In the earth at the entrance were fresh tracks.
“We have him!” Flying Hawk signed excitedly.
Nate hoped so. Once he had Pegasus back he would head for home, tell his wife what had transpired, then resume his search for choice areas to trap beaver far to the northwest. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. Venturing into Ute country was tempting Fate, a notoriously harsh mistress. From now on out, he decided, he would stay shy of Ute territory unless he had a damn good reason for doing otherwise.
In the confined space between the high ravine walls the clopping of the roan was unusually loud. Nate scanned the rims above, bothered at being a potential target should Cain be perched up there with a rifle. He grinned when he spotted the end of the defile and hefted the Hawken.
Flying Hawk had pulled a shaft from his quiver and notched it on the bowstring.
A strong breeze struck them, growing in intensity the closer they drew to whatever lay beyond the ravine. Nate tugged his hat down and narrowed his eyes to reduce the bright glare off the ravine walls. Then they were there, and he stopped in midstride on seeing the landscape that unfolded before their astounded eyes.
An arid wasteland of gorges, p
lateaus, and bluffs formed a virtual maze of inhospitable terrain stretching for miles in all directions. Scattered bushes and scrub trees comprised the only plant life. A solitary golden eagle soared on high on the air currents. Otherwise, nothing moved. The breeze, a hot blast of wind, hit them full force.
“There!” Flying Hawk signed with the bow in his left hand, and pointed using his right.
Nate screened his eyes from the sun, using his palm, and saw the reason the warrior was so excited. Far out in the wasteland rose a thin tendril of white smoke, so faint as to be almost indistinguishable.
“False Tongue!” the Ute said. “Now I know why I could not find him. He is even more clever than I believed.” He replaced the arrow, slung the bow, and swiftly mounted. “Hurry, Grizzly Killer. My sister is close. I can feel she is.”
Nate mounted also, and the roan broke into a gallop, raising a cloud of dust in their wake. Nate tapped Flying Hawk on the shoulder and bobbed his head at the dust.
Scowling in displeasure, Flying Hawk slowed.
Keeping the smoke in sight proved difficult. Unless the angle of the sun was just right they would lose track of it. Often they had to skirt bluffs, and then had to look hard to find the smoke again when they were in the open. Several times they passed through gorges and were denied sight of the wispy column for minutes on end.
Nate feared the fire would be put out before they got close enough to pinpoint its location. Mile after mile fell behind them. The roan began to tire, its head drooping. Nate himself felt as if he was roasting alive. Often he mopped his brow and ran a hand over his neck. He was sorry now that they hadn’t taken the time to drink their fill back at the spring in the park.
After two hours of grueling travel, Nate was about to advise Flying Hawk to stop and rest when the wind brought to his sensitive nose the acrid aroma of burning wood. The Ute smelled it too, because he stiffened. They rode for another hundred yards, to a point where the dry wash they had been following made a sharp turn to the right around a rise. The smoke appeared to be wafting skyward on the other side.
Flying Hawk drew rein and slid down. He left the roan standing there and beckoned for Nate to make haste.
And Nate did, although he didn’t like rushing in when common sense dictated they should go slowly and warily. The element of surprise was essential if they were to take Cain without a fight. That is, if the Ute wanted to avoid bloodshed, which he doubted. He caught up with the warrior as they neared the turn, and they both dropped onto their hands and knees and crawled to where they could see past the rise.
The fire was fifty yards off, outside of the dark mouth to a large cave situated in a rock wall over a hundred feet high. Pegasus and two other horses were tethered outside the cave, in the shade, close to a small pool.
Nate saw a shadowy figure move in the cave mouth, and seconds later a beautiful Indian woman in a beaded buckskin dress, her raven hair flowing down to her hips, emerged carrying a tin pot and walked to the fire.
Flying Hawk could barely contain himself. “That is my sister!” he signed, beaming broadly. “But where is False Tongue?”
Shrugging, Nate scoured the area but saw no trace of the man they sought. Suddenly a shadow fell across them, and glancing up he felt his breath catch in his throat.
Looming tall on the brim of the wash, a cocked flintlock held steady in each tanned hand, wearing buckskins and moccasins and smirking in triumph, was Solomon Cain.
Four
“Payin’ a visit, are you?” Solomon Cain asked merrily.
Flying Hawk spun and went to lift his bow, a futile act since all Cain had to do was twitch a forefinger and the Ute would receive a ball in the chest or head. Nate, out of the corner of his eye, saw the warrior spin, and flicked out his hand to stop the bow from rising. Flying Hawk glared at him and tried to tear the bow loose, then froze when Cain spoke sternly in the Ute tongue. Hissing like an enraged viper, the Ute removed his fingers from the bow and held his hands aloft.
“Sensible cuss, ain’t he?” Cain addressed Nate in English. “Now why don’t you do the same with your guns and such or I’ll be obliged to put some lead into your system.”
With the twin barrels of those pistols fixed on his person, there was nothing else Nate could do but ease his weapons to the ground.
“Now stand and step out of temptation’s reach,” Cain ordered, and issued a similar statement in the Ute language.
Side by side, Nate and Flying Hawk backed off.
“I must admit I am surprised,” Cain said, giving each of them a firm scrutiny. “I never expected you two dunderheads to ever find me.” He jumped from the top of the wash and landed lightly on the balls of his feet, his pistols swiveling to cover them as he dropped.
“You stole my horse, you son of a bitch,” Nate growled, more so because he was mad at himself for blundering into Cain’s grasp than anything else.
“And a nice horse it is,” Cain responded blithely. “Didn’t give me a lick of trouble until I came through the ravine. Then it acted up considerably. I guess it wanted to go back to you, but I got it here anyway.”
“Too bad Pegasus didn’t throw you off and bust your head wide open.”
“My, you are in a feisty mood today,” Cain quipped, then transferred his attention to Flying Hawk and spoke in Ute. The warrior, flushing crimson, clenched his fists.
“For a fierce Ute he sure has a soft hide,” Cain said, and laughed. “All I did was tell him how pretty I think his sister is.”
Nate debated whether to try and reach Cain before the man could fire and had to face the truth. He’d be shot down before he took three steps. A distraction was called for. But what? “You may have us,” he mentioned when an idea occurred to him, “but the others will get you. There are ten more Utes about a mile behind us. You won’t stand a prayer.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Cain retorted. “I happened to be up on the rise when I spotted the two of you. And do you know what? I watched and watched and never saw anyone else. How naughty of you to lie like that, King.”
Thwarted, Nate struggled to remain calm, to not let his anger at being captured gain the upper hand. Only by doing so would he be ready to make his move if an opportunity presented itself. For the time being there was no denying they were completely at Cain’s mercy, which meant they might not have long to live. For lack of anything better to do, he elected to try a risky bluff. Putting a grin on his face, he said, “Do you really think the Utes would give themselves away? I thought you knew more about Indians than that.”
A hint of uncertainty crept into Cain’s eyes.
“Go ahead and shoot,” Nate blustered. “They’ll hear the shot and come on the run.”
“You’re lyin’ through your teeth.”
“Am I? Are you absolutely sure?”
No, Cain wasn’t, and his expression conveyed as much. Turning slightly, he shot a glance over his shoulder, then regarded Nate in annoyance. “I ain’t goin’ to buy your story, King. Not even a little bit.” He wagged his pistols. “But I’m not one to play the odds when the stakes are so high. We’ll wait and see if more Utes show. If they don’t, you and I are goin’ to do some chawin’ about what happens to them who lie to me.”
“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” Nate taunted.
Solomon Cain motioned with the flintlocks. “I want the two of you to start walkin’ to my cave. Walk slow and keep your arms where I can see ’em. If you don’t, I can guarantee you’ll be sorry.” He looked at Flying Hawk and repeated his instructions in the Ute’s tongue.
If ever two men were the picture of depression, it had to be Nate and the warrior as they hiked along the wash until it ended, and then climbed out and made for Cain’s hideaway. Nate wished he could plant a foot on his own backside for being so careless. He’d acted like a greenhorn and paid the price for his folly. But all was not lost. He’d bought them some time by instilling doubt in Cain about the possible presence of more Utes. Until Cain became conv
inced the two of them were indeed alone, they were safe unless they gave him cause to shoot.
They had hardly cleared the top of the wash when Smoky Woman spotted them and squealed in delight. Like a doe she bounded toward them and hurled herself into her brother’s arms.
Nate halted when Flying Hawk did. He watched the two warmly embrace and heard them exchange a few urgent words. Smoky Woman then glanced at Cain and spoke some more. Cain replied curtly. At that moment Nate would have given anything to be fluent in the Ute tongue. He knew a few words from the time he hooked up with Two Owls, but nowhere near enough to conduct a conversation. For lack of anything else to do, he studied the woman indirectly responsible for their dilemma.
The beauty of youth animated her finely chiseled features. Her eyes were a soft brown, her complexion as smooth as a baby’s with nary a wrinkle marring her skin. Her full lips were a tantalizing cherry color, while her full bosom swelled with each breath she took. She was a living work of art, and Nate had no difficulty understanding what Cain saw in her and why Cain had abducted her. If nothing else, the bastard had excellent taste in women. She appeared to be quite upset at her brother being held at gunpoint, but all her arguments were apparently wasted on Cain.
Nate stared at the cave as they neared it. The heady odor of simmering venison filled the air, and he saw that Smoky Woman had stew going. Pegasus, spying Nate, tried to come over, only to be stopped short by the rope. Just inside the cave, piled against the wall, were saddles, parfleches, blankets, and other provisions. “Looks like you plan to be here a spell,” he commented.
“Another month or two should do me,” Cain responded.
“What then?”
“I go back to St. Louis and buy the biggest mansion there is. The rest of my born days are goin’ to be lived in the lap of luxury. Fine food. Fancy clothes. Expensive carriages. You name it, I’ll own it.”
“It costs a lot of money to do all that,” Nate observed.
“I’ll have something better than money.”
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