Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  Flying Hawk scowled. “It would have been better had he been killed. My sister would not abandon her people then.”

  “And what about her baby? Do you want her to raise the child by herself?”

  “There will be no baby.”

  The vehemence with which the warrior gestured alarmed Nate. “You would not harm an infant?”

  “There will be no baby,” Flying Hawk reiterated, and turned away to stare out into the night.

  Deeply disturbed, Nate walked to the horses and pretended to be interested in the Palouse while his mind whirled with the dreadful implication of the Ute’s statement. Should he warn Cain and Smoky Woman or keep his mouth shut? The squabble was none of his affair but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing, not with the life of an innocent at stake.

  During the next hour nothing of note transpired. Nate checked on Cain and found him slumbering peacefully, Smoky Woman sitting at his side. Flying Hawk appeared to be in a foul mood so Nate left him alone.

  As more time elapsed and the savages failed to attack, Nate knew his guess about their strategy had been accurate. The Indians were going to starve then out. He made a check of the food and figured there was enough to last then for a week if they ate sparingly. But, as Cain had pointed out, there was no feed for the horses.

  The harrowing events of the day and night took their toll. Nate’s eyelids became leaden. He made bold to approach Flying Hawk and suggested they take turns keeping watch in order for each of them to catch some sleep. The Ute agreed and volunteered to stand guard first.

  Spreading his blanket near the horses, Nate reclined on his back, his head propped in his hands, and stared at the inky ceiling. Sometimes he had to wonder what could have possessed him to venture into the brutal heart of the untamed wilderness when back in New York City he could have lived in perfect safety and comfort! His Uncle Zeke had been the one who enticed his by implying he would acquire the greatest treasure a man could own. And off he’d gone, mistakenly believing Zeke was referring to gold, when all the time Zeke had been talking about an entirely different and greater treasure, the priceless gift of untrammeled freedom.

  Was true freedom worth all he went through simply to stay alive? The question itself was ridiculous. He remembered life in New York City, with countless thousands scurrying to and from work each day, toiling ceaselessly to make ends meet, to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. Yes, they lived in safety and relative comfort, but at what price? They were slaves to the money they earned, caught in a vicious circle from which there was no escape unless by some miracle they should become rich, in which case they would hoard their wealth like squirrels hoarded pine cones and nuts, as miserly with their riches as they had been in their poverty.

  He started to yawn, and suppressed it lest he make a sound. Closing his eyes, he envisioned his wife’s beautiful face floating in the air above him, and he wondered if he would ever see that face again.

  Sleep abruptly claimed him.

  ~*~

  The light touch of something on his shoulder brought Nate up with a start. His hand closed on the Hawken as he blinked and looked around to see Flying Hawk beside him.

  “Your time,” the Ute signed.

  “Oh,” Nate mumbled in English. He shook his head to clear lingering cobwebs, then stood and motioned for Flying Hawk to use his blanket. After a moment’s hesitation the warrior accepted the offer.

  By the position of the few stars Nate could see from behind the barricade, he estimated the time to be close to four in the morning. Flying Hawk had stood guard for more than half the night. Settling down where he commanded a clear view of the area outside, Nate leaned the Hawken within easy reach.

  Soon dawn would break. The temperature would climb steadily until by noon they would be sweltering even in the cave. Without water they would be parched by sundown.

  Idly glancing to his left, he was surprised to see the dead savages had been piled in the gap between the barricade and the far wall, effectively blocking off the opening. Flying Hawk had been busy during the night. As he stared at the corpses his memory was jogged. Somewhere, sometime, he’d heard something about Indians who were just like or very similar to these. But where? Then he recollected the Rendezvous of ’27. Or was it ’28? In any event, he’d been seated around a campfire with nine or ten other men listening to Jim Bridger relate various adventures.

  At one point Bridger told one of his favorite stories, about the time back in ’24 when he and a group of friends took to arguing over how far Bear River went. Bets were wagered. Bridger was picked to go find out. He shot a buffalo and stretched the skin hide over a framework of willow branches to make a bullboat. Then off he went.

  Mile after mile Bridger followed the river until he came to a huge body of water no white man had ever laid eyes on before. When he dipped his hand in he was astonished to find the water was salty. Bridger had just discovered Big Salt Lake, as the trappers usually referred to it.

  During the course of this story Bridger had talked about various Indian tribes inhabiting the region, and then repeated a story told to him by a Snake warrior. West of the Salt Lake, the Snake had claimed, lived a tribe known as the Root Eaters, or Digger Indians, who went around stark naked and lived on roots, seeds, fish, frogs, and whatever else they could find. Some of them were supposed to be as hairy as bears. The Snake had spoken of then with contempt, comparing them to animals.

  Were these the same tribe? Or another just like the Diggers? Bridger had not mentioned anything about the Root Eaters having a taste for human flesh, as the bones in the back chamber indicated these did. Perhaps, Nate reasoned, his imagination was getting the better of him. Perhaps these Indians didn’t eat captives. Nonetheless, they were extremely dangerous.

  Shortly the sky grew progressively lighter. The stars faded by gradual degrees. A pink and orange tinge painted the eastern horizon and transformed the snowcaps on the regal peaks into crowns of radiant glory.

  Nate stretched and rubbed his eyes. He could use ten or twelve hours of undisturbed sleep, a luxury he was unlikely to enjoy for quite some time. Since he had taken over the watch there had been no sign of the savages, but as sure as he was breathing he knew they were lurking out there, hidden, just waiting their chance.

  The soft patter of feet made him turn.

  “Good morning,” Smoky Woman said softly.

  “How’s Cain doing?” Nate inquired.

  “Very weak. Very hot. Skin burn.”

  “Do you still have some of the water left?”

  “Yes,” Smoky Woman answered, and held up her hand, her thumb and forefinger extended and several inches apart. “This much.”

  Which wasn’t much at all, Nate reflected dourly. Before noon they must decide whether to make a dash for the spring or to suffer through the whole day and try after dark. Given Cain’s condition, they could ill afford to wait that long.

  “I forget thank you what you do last night,” Smoky Woman said.

  “I did what I had to.”

  “You not like him?”

  Rather than hurt her feelings by being frank, Nate said, “I’ve met more trustworthy folks in my time.”

  “Cain good man.”

  Only a fool disputed with a woman in love over the object of her affections, and Nate was no fool. “I hope you’re right, for your sake,” was all he said.

  An uncomfortable silence descended. Nate, aware he was wasting his time, occupied himself by scanning their vicinity for concealed savages.

  “You like pemmican or jerky for breakfast?” Smoky Woman inquired.

  “Jerky will do me fine,” Nate said, his gaze on her until she rounded the turn. He saw Flying Hawk’s eyes snap open and suspected the warrior had been awake for some time. “Morning,” he said with a smile.

  Flying Hawk gave a curt nod and slowly stood. The quiver went across his back. The powerful bow was held in his brawny left hand as he stepped to the barricade and peered out.

  “All
has been quiet,” Nate signed.

  As if to prove Nate wrong, a lone savage forty yards out darted from one boulder to another, his body a blur. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. If not for a tiny swirl of dust the man made, Nate would have doubted his eyes.

  Flying Hawk had whipped up the bow, but the savage was under cover before he could nock a shaft.

  “I wonder how many more are out there,” Nate mused aloud. He’d seen five last night, but there might be many times that number. When the time came to try for the spring he’d probably find out exactly how many there were.

  That time came sooner than anticipated. An hour and a half later, with the heat rising steadily, Smoky Woman came to Nate and said urgently, “Come see. Cain very bad.”

  One look at the sweat glistening on Cain’s feverish brow, listening to Cain mutter incoherently as he tossed and turned on the buffalo hide, was enough to persuade Nate they must obtain fresh water immediately since the pot was almost empty. Smoky Woman had been draping wet cloths on Cain’s brow and neck to keep his temperature down. Since they couldn’t exactly stroll out to the spring and back, they’d need a better container than the pot to hold the water or risk spilling most of it along the way. “Does Cain own a water bag?” he inquired.

  “I think yes,” Smoky Woman responded. “I see.” Spinning, she scurried off.

  Nate stayed with Cain, sopping sweat off the man’s face, until she came back bearing an old, empty water bag made from a buffalo bladder. It had not seen use in quite a spell. He would have to remember not to fill it to the top or it might burst. “We’ll need your help,” he told Smoky Woman.

  “Anything.”

  He led her to the barricade and gave her Cain’s rifle and pistol. “You stay with your brother. No matter what happens, don’t let those savages get in here.”

  “You go alone?”

  “One of us has to,” Nate responded, and set down the Hawken. He wanted his hands free to carry the water bag and to bring his pistols into play when the savages tried to stop him, as they surely would. Giving her a reassuring smile while butterflies swarmed in his stomach, Nate placed a hand on top of the barricade and tensed to vault over it.

  Ten

  Flying Hawk suddenly stepped forward and grasped Nate’s arm, then he addressed his sister, speaking swiftly.

  “What does he want?” Nate asked when the warrior finished.

  “Want both you go,” Smoky Woman translated.

  “No. Tell him he must defend the cave. If we both went, and if we both should be taken captive or worse, you’d be on your own. I can’t allow that,” Nate said. He waited impatiently as his words were relayed. Then, before the warrior could lodge another objection, he vaulted over the barricade and instantly broke into a run, going at his top speed toward the spring. Once again he hugged the wall, but little good it did him.

  Nate had not covered ten feet when a chorus of shrill whoops signified the savages had spotted him. A grimy brute popped up as if spewed from the earth itself and bore down on him with an uplifted club. Nate’s right hand flashed for a pistol. The next moment a streaking shaft struck the savage on the side of the neck and went completely through, the bloody point protruding six inches. Staggered, the savage stumbled, clutched at the shaft, then whirled and made for another boulder.

  Nate never broke stride. A lance glittered as it arced on high, swooped down at him, and thudded into the earth a yard to his rear. Darts rained down, a few at first, then more and more. He began weaving and ducking to make it harder for them to hit him. When he drew within twenty feet of the pool he nearly died.

  A chunk of rock the size of his thigh came hurtling down from above, missing him by less than six inches, and slammed with terrific force into the ground. Unable to stop, he tripped over the rock and sprawled onto his hands and knees. Twisting, he shot a glance at the rim and saw several heads outlined against the sky just as one of the savages shoved a large boulder over the edge.

  Nate flung himself away from the wall and rolled. He heard a tremendous crash, and swore the earth shook when the boulder smashed down on the exact spot where he had tripped. Pushing erect, he raced madly for the spring.

  A dart nearly took off his nose.

  Then he was there, dropping to his knees and shoving the open water bag under the surface. Bubbles rose in a flurry. One hand holding the bag, he shifted to check behind him.

  Two savages, one armed with a lance, the other a club, were rapidly closing.

  His pistol blossomed in his hand and spat smoke and lead. The savage with the lance, shot in the shoulder, jerked at the impact and fell. Fearlessly the second savage came on, his club waving in the air above his head.

  Nate dared not let go of the water bag. It was becoming heavier and heavier as it filled, and if he let go it might sink to the bottom. He was forced to tuck the spent flintlock under his belt and draw his other one with his left hand alone, which slowed him down so much that the savage was almost upon him before he got the other pistol out. The club whizzed at his head. Dropping low, Nate hastily pointed the pistol at the man and fired. He meant to send the ball into the savage’s chest but in his haste he shot too low.

  The ball bored into the Indian’s groin, sheering off part of his organ. Howling like a banshee, the savage dropped his club and clutched his shattered manhood. He looked at Nate, his lips flecked with spittle, his eyes aflame with hatred.

  Nate hit him, a short swipe of the flintlock that clipped the Indian on the temple and brought the man to his knees, stunned. As Nate raised the pistol for another blow the savage abruptly surged straight at him, head lowered, a human battering ram. Nate tried to get his arm down to block the rush but failed. In dismay he felt the man’s head slam into his chest, propelling his rearward, into the pool.

  A cool, wet blanket enveloped his body. He sank under to his chin. Somehow he retained his grip on the water bag and the pistol. His legs thrashing to keep him afloat, he saw the savage also in the pool, treading water and reaching for him with thick fingers formed into crushing claws.

  Nate evaded the Indian’s clutches, pedaling backwards. He had to get out of the pool and get out fast. Should another savage appear he’d be killed in an instant. Angling to the left, he swam for the edge, hauling the almost full water bag in his wake. The savage pursued him, swimming awkwardly, weakly, a crimson ring forming around the man’s midsection and spreading upward.

  Yet another dart splashed into the pool within a hand’s width of Nate’s face. Breathing heavily, he reached the rock rim, his right arm aching terribly from the weight of the bag. He hooked his left elbow on the rim, bunched his shoulder muscles, and pulled himself out.

  What he needed most was a respite to catch his breath, but Fate dictated otherwise. A pair of iron hands clamped on his neck from behind and he was bodily lifted into the air. In order to fight back he had to release the water bag, which fell under his feet, water pouring from the narrow neck.

  Nate lashed backwards with his right elbow and felt it connect with what seemed like a solid slab of marble. He tried the same tactic with his left elbow, slanting it higher, and this time connected with the savage’s cheek. Simultaneously he kicked to the rear, driving his foot up and in, knowing his life hung in the balance.

  Gurgling in rage, the savage heaved Nate aside as if he was no more than a child’s doll. Nate landed hard on his right side, pain lancing from his elbow to his shoulder. His arm tingled, going numb as he stood. He still held a useless pistol in his left arm, which he wielded as a club when the savage sprang.

  Although shorter, the savage was much heavier, so much so that Nate lost his balance and fell, the Indian on top of him. He found himself looking into the darkest, beadiest, most animal-like eyes he had ever seen on another human being, so bestial they reminded him of the eyes of bears. And in those eyes gleamed the promise of his death.

  Desperately, Nate slammed the flintlock onto the man’s jaw, but the savage was unaffected. Those thic
k fingers closed on his throat, shutting off his windpipe. In less than a minute he would lose consciousness if his neck wasn’t crushed before then. Gritting his teeth, he managed to move his tingling right arm and grab his tomahawk. The savage’s thumbs were gouging deep into his throat and he thought his flesh would be pried apart.

  Nate wrenched the tomahawk free, swung it out to the side, then drove the wide razor edge into the Indian’s torso below the left arm. With a pantherish screech, the savage let go and leaped upright, a hand pressed to the profusely bleeding wound above his ribs.

  Twisting, Nate pressed his advantage, arcing the tomahawk in a tight half-circle that brought the blade down on top of the savage’s foot. The toes were chopped clean off and a red geyser spurted from the stub.

  The savage, howling in fury, lifted his foot and clasped it. Behind him the Indian with the wounded groin was trying to climb out of the pool.

  Nate’s foot flicked out and crunched into the knee of the savage in front of him, knocking the man backwards into the Indian struggling to clamber from the water. Both men plunged under the surface. In the clear at last, Nate slid the pistol under his belt, scooped up the water bag in his left hand, and ran for the cave.

  Darts zipped from several directions. Big stones were hurled down at him from above. A lance came close to bringing his down.

  A whirlwind of motion, Nate constantly zigzagged, never running in a straight line for more than a few feet at a time. He saw Flying Hawk jump over the barricade and begin shooting arrows at an incredible rate, covering him. His foot hit a rut and he tripped, almost falling but righting himself with a supreme effort at the last moment.

  Then he was near the cave and sailing because he’d successfully thwarted death and bucked the odds. He saw Smoky Woman behind the barricade, smiling too because now they had enough water to get by for a while, more than enough to use to keep Cain’s fever under control. But their joy was premature and short-lived.