Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  Quickly sliding off, Nate jammed the knife into its sheath and took hold of Cain’s waist to ease him from the saddle. Smoky Woman grasped Cain’s slack legs. Together they carefully lowered him to the ground, onto his back, and she knelt to examine him closely, running her hands over his body as she probed for darts.

  The wounded horse picked that moment to take a few steps, halt, and nicker pathetically. Staggering, it tottered to the left. Then its front knees buckled and it sank down, puffing like a steam engine.

  Closer scrutiny showed Nate that the dart in the animal’s neck was so firmly imbedded as to be impossible to get out by hand. It would have to be dug out with a knife. The other two, though, protruded enough to be firmly grasped, so with vigorous pulling he was able to pluck them loose. The horse whinnied in agony as the second was extracted, and a torrent of fresh blood pumped from the hole.

  Nate cast the darts from him with an angry jerk. If they had the time and enough water and forage they might be able to nurse the wounded animal back to health. But of course they had none of those things. The poor horse was doomed and there was nothing he could do except put it out of its misery now rather than let it linger on for a few days in the most abominable torment. And he couldn’t use a gun since the sound of a shot would carry for a mile or more in the rarified mountain air.

  The hilt of the butcher knife molded to his palm as he stepped up to the horse’s neck and felt for the telltale jugular groove. Draping his left arm over the neck, he squeezed to keep the neck still long enough for his right hand to slash open the jugular, then he jumped back before the crimson geyser that spurted forth could drench him.

  Again the horse nickered, soft and low, and shook its head as if at buzzing flies. Its great breaths became more labored than ever. Slowly the head drooped.

  Nate turned, unwilling to watch the animal die. He disliked having to dispatch it. His only consolation was that according to some old-timers he had talked to, bleeding to death was a painless way to go. There was little if any pain. It was more like the sensation of falling asleep, all drowsy and tingly and bizarrely pleasant.

  Smoky Woman had her hand on Cain’s forehead. “Him still much hot,” she said.

  “He’ll be all right once we’re in the mountains,” Nate said, although inwardly he lacked complete conviction. First they must get Cain there, which promised to be a formidable task given there might be more savages around. And too, infections were difficult to eliminate under the best of circumstances; they still had many miles to travel across the inhospitable pocket of desolation, which would only make Cain’s condition worse.

  Nate glanced at Flying Hawk, who stood stoically nearby. “How are you?” he signed, as usual amplifying his motions so they would be easily understood in the dark.

  The warrior grunted.

  “Let me see,” Nate signed, moving behind him. The dart, he saw, had penetrated several inches and left a finger-sized hole when it had been wrenched out. Thankfully, the wound had stopped bleeding, indicating the dart had not severed any large blood vessels.

  Solomon Cain groaned and tossed as would someone having a bad dream.

  “We have to press on,” Nate said.

  “Cain need rest,” Smoky Woman objected.

  “When we’re safe. We haven’t gone all that far yet, and for all we know our enemies can run long distances without tiring, just like the Apaches do. They might be closing in on us even as we speak. When we reach the mountains he can rest.”

  She thought for a moment, then rose and pointed at the gelding. “You go ahead. Take Cain.”

  Now it was Nate’s turn to object. “I’m not leaving Flying Hawk and you here all alone,” he declared.

  “You go fast,” she insisted. “We come later.”

  Should he or shouldn’t he? Nate wondered. She had a valid point, namely that he could get Cain to safety, to that sheltered park where the grass was green and the water deliciously cold, well before dawn if he rode off right that minute. There Cain would get all the rest he needed. But Nate balked at the idea of deserting the two Utes, leaving them stranded, afoot, with Flying Hawk, hurt. They would be unable to stand off the savages if they were found. Sighing, he said, “No. We’ll stay together.”

  Simmering with frustration, Smoky Woman clenched her fists. “You go fast. Get Cain safe.”

  “No. We go together,” Nate emphasized as he stooped and slid both hands under Cain’s shoulders. A look and a nod at Flying Hawk was sufficient to bring the warrior over, and presently they had Cain in the saddle with his legs tied tight to the stirrups and additional rope securing him to the saddle horn.

  Nate grasped the reins and assumed the lead, but he only took a single pace when the reins were torn from his grasp by Smoky Woman, who angrily motioned for him to keep walking. She intended to take care of Cain herself.

  “As you wish,” Nate said softly, going on. Her resentment upset him, yet not enough to make him change his mind. There were four lives at stake, not just one, and he had a responsibility to do his damnedest to insure all four of them survived. She would thank him, later, if they ran into trouble.

  The minutes dragged past as if weighted with an anchor. A total and unnatural quiet pervaded their surroundings. Missing were the typical night sounds of yipping coyotes, howling wolves, hooting owls, and snarling panthers. Even the insects, if there were any, were silent.

  Nate checked to their rear time and again. His warning about the savages being able to duplicate the feats of the Apaches was no idle chatter. Apaches were marvelous long-distance runners, able to cover seventy miles at a steady dogtrot. It was very possible the Diggers or Root Eaters, if such they were, could do the same.

  Occasionally he tilted his head back to admire the magnificent celestial display overhead. Back in New York City, he had barely looked at the stars. Out here, among the mile-high Rockies, they resembled brilliant torches, flaring bright and proud in the sprawling firmament, countless in number, awesome in aspect. He never tired of viewing the nightly spectacle.

  A faint scratching noise wafted on the breeze.

  Pausing, Nate gazed to the northwest but saw nothing to arouse concern. Whether man or beast or freak of Nature had made the sound, he had no way of determining. Shrugging, he hiked on, staring at the inky silhouettes of the eastern range that seemed so very far away.

  Flying Hawk joined his sister and the two conversed in soft whispers. The warrior, Nate noticed, held his right arm bent close to his body, evidence the shoulder wound was bothering him severely.

  By Nate’s reckoning an hour and a half had elapsed when they came to a ridge of cap-rock. At its base Smoky Woman halted and cast a critical eye at him. “We stop little bit?” she asked.

  Nate didn’t see any harm in a few minutes of rest. “Yes.”

  With her brother’s aid, Smoky Woman took Cain down and laid him on a flat stretch of solid rock. She borrowed her brother’s knife to cut a strip from the hem of her buckskin dress, then moistened the strip with her spittle so she could cool Cain’s face and neck.

  Nate thought to open a parfleche and remove several pieces of jerked venison. He offered one to Flying Hawk, who accepted it with a nod, and to Smoky Woman, who vigorously shook her head. He extended his hand, saying, “You really should eat something. You need to keep up your strength.” But to his consternation, she swatted his hand aside and shifted so her back was to him.

  Deeply chagrined, Nate moved a couple of yards off and sat with his left shoulder propped against a boulder. So that was the thanks he got for trying to do the right thing! She didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

  He chewed absently, barely aware of the tangy taste that normally he liked so much. Gazing around, he realized Flying Hawk was staring at him. When he ventured a friendly smile, the Ute turned away. Puzzled, he scratched his chin and tried to make sense of the warrior’s behavior. Were they both mad at him? Smoky Woman he could understand, but not her brother.

  A few minu
tes later Nate stood and coughed to clear his throat. “We should be moving on,” he proposed.

  Without saying a word, Smoky Woman and Flying Hawk put Cain back on Pegasus. They tied him as before. Then Smoky Woman took the reins and moved out, staying close to the base of the ridge. Her brother fell into step behind her, leaving Nate to follow at his leisure.

  Slanting the Hawken over his left shoulder, Nate did just that. He was almost sorry he hadn’t taken Smoky Woman up on her request to ride off with Cain. It would serve them right, he reflected, if the savages caught up with them when he wasn’t on hand to help in the fight.

  Shortly thereafter Nate dimly heard an indistinct noise, this time to the south. Peering into the darkness proved unavailing. If there was something or someone out there, they were virtual ghosts.

  He kept a close watch on their back trail from then on. If the savages were dogging them, the attack, when it came, would be swift and silent. He imagined getting a dart between the shoulder blades, and his skin prickled from head to toe.

  Presently the wind picked up, gusting violently as it often did in the high country. There were no trees to rustle, no grass to bend, but it did howl among the benches and gorges, the bluffs and the canyons, moaning and wailing like a forlorn soul fated to endlessly wander the earth in search of eternal rest.

  Nate hoped a storm wasn’t approaching. Solomon Cain couldn’t withstand a steady soaking; weakened as he was, Cain would come down with the chills, perhaps even contract pneumonia. Scanning the heavens confirmed the sky was cloudless, alleviating Nate’s fears.

  The encounter with the primitive Indians gave Nate cause to wonder how many other unknown tribes existed west of the Mississippi. The vast territory was essentially unexplored, so who could say what lurked in the depths of the verdant forests or in remote recesses like the wasteland he was now in? He’d heard tales of Indians living in fabulous cliff cities far to the southwest, and fantastic stories of Indians living on the northern Pacific Coast who hunted huge whales from flimsy craft. Previously he had been skeptical of any and all such reports, but the more he learned of the limitless land of mystery in which he had elected to dwell, the more he appreciated the truth of the age-old belief that there were more things in heaven and on earth than humankind dreamed of. And some of them were better left alone.

  One day, though, Nate wanted to venture to the Pacific Ocean and perhaps explore regions of the continent seldom if ever visited by white men. Abiding within him was a perpetual curiosity about what might lie beyond the next horizon. He’d like to see those cliff cities and watch a boatload of Indians hunt one of the great whales. He’d like to penetrate to the heart of the many wonders waiting to be discovered by those bold enough to challenge the unknown.

  When that day would come, he had no idea. For now he had a wife and son to think of. Providing for them was his first priority. He felt confident that at some point in the future an opportunity would arise to satisfy his craving to explore. Until then he would be patient.

  His short sleep of the night before had done little to refresh him, and now the toll of the long day and the desperate flight brought fatigue to his limbs and drowsiness to his mind. Often his heavy eyelids tried to stay shut, and he would energetically shake his head and yawn each time as he fought to stay alert.

  Solomon Cain commenced snoring, a low rumble like that of a hibernating bear.

  Nate wished the man would stop. The snoring would drown out any slight noises that might herald an attack by the savages. He forced his sluggish faculties to razor sharpness and scoured the empty landscape on all sides. Not a hint of movement could be detected.

  Then he got a surprise. He saw Smoky Woman hand the reins to her brother and come back to fall into step beside him.

  “I sorry,” she said softly in her heavily accented English.

  “For what?” Nate responded without thinking.

  “For treating you poorly.”

  “You had your reasons, I reckon.”

  “No excuse. You do what right by stay with us. Brother make that clear.”

  “He did?” Nate replied in mild amazement that the Ute had spoken up in his defense. “I figured he was mad at me too.”

  “Him not like whites, but him say you man of honor.”

  “Be sure and thank your brother for the compliment.”

  They strolled for a score of yards in taciturn introspection. Then Smoky Woman fixed her beautiful eyes on him.

  “I love Cain.”

  “I know.”

  “You must understand. I never love man before, not like this. When Cain take me I much scared. But him nice. Him gentle. I think him pretty.”

  Nate listened attentively, mystified as to why she was baring her soul. She owed him no explanations. It was none of his business. Yet she went on talking, struggling to find the proper words, pausing between sentences to formulate her thoughts.

  “Cain not like any man. He fire my heart, make me forget my people, my family. All I want was him.”

  True love, Nate mused, did have a way of jangling a person’s brain so badly they couldn’t think straight. Sweet memories of his first meeting with Winona reminded him of how he had been utterly swept away by her looks, her touch, even her scent. The mere sight of her had been enough to set his pulse to racing.

  “Cain must not die. Our child have him for father.”

  Was it Nate’s imagination, or did he read a certain tinge of anxiety in her tone? He could sympathize with her plight. If she lost Cain, she’d be on her own, raising a half-breed son or daughter in a world hostile to breeds, a taxing task that would make her old before her time.

  Smoky Woman placed a hand on her stomach and smiled. “We be happy always. Child have much love. Grow to be good.”

  “Your child will be very fortunate,” Nate declared. “Believe me, I want things to work out for you as much as you do yourself. And if you still want me to, I’ll ride on ahead to the mountains with Cain once we’re close enough and I’m convinced the other tribe isn’t after us.”

  She impulsively gave his elbow a friendly squeeze. “Thank you, Grizzly Killer.”

  There was an odd lump in Nate’s throat as he watched her return to her brother and take over leading the Palouse. Her love was so sincere, so pure. But what about Cain’s love for her? Did Cain truly care for her, or had he pretended to care because he craved her companionship? If Nate was any judge, the only thing Solomon Cain cared about was the gold.

  At last the lonesome wail of a distant wolf wavered on the crisp air.

  Nate perked up and scanned the eastern range. They must be within a mile or so of the mountains! Then he had second thoughts. They’d not gone far enough yet. The wolf must be prowling the eastern perimeter of the wasteland and was trying to locate others of its kind.

  Suddenly Smoky Woman and Flying Hawk halted. Pegasus whinnied and shied away, as if from a snake in his path.

  In four bounds Nate learned the reason. They had unexpectedly come on a sheer drop-off of fifty or sixty feet, a slope impossible for the gelding to negotiate. “We’ll have to go around,” he advised, moving to the left along the rim.

  The bottom was lost in the bleak gloom. It might well be a sepulchral pit, but he wouldn’t know until he found a way down. He was encouraged by the fact the rim angled gradually lower.

  A blast of wind struck him, flapping the whangs on his buckskins. It brought with it the weird cry of an unknown bird, the same bird he’d heard when he’d been after Smoky Woman’s abductors. Only it wasn’t a bird.

  Stopping, Nate raised the Hawken and sought the source of the cry. A squat, pale form briefly materialized over a hundred feet off, then seemed to dissipate on the blustering breeze. Nate’s stomach bound into knots as he hurried on, motioning for the others to do the same. Isolated on the rim as they were, with their backs to the drop-off, they were particularly vulnerable. They had to reach flat ground or find a spot to take shelter.

  But the savages weren’t
about to let them. There was a sharp shout in an unfamiliar tongue, and a half-dozen shapes rose up and charged.

  Twelve

  Nate took speedy aim and fired, rushing his shot so much he was certain he missed. The intended target, and all the rest of the savages, promptly went to ground. “Keep going!” he urged the Utes, letting them take the lead so he could protect their flank and safeguard Pegasus.

  A blurred object arced down from the inkwell sky, narrowly missing the gelding’s neck and sailing out over the drop-off.

  Drawing his right pistol, Nate searched in vain for an enemy to shoot. He berated himself for having stopped to rest earlier. Had they gone at a swifter pace, the primitives might not have overtaken them.

  But such thoughts, he realized, were pointless. Survival was the issue. With that uppermost in mind, he took a gamble and wedged the pistol under his belt again so he could reload the rifle. Some of the powder spilled and he had a trying time inserting the ball and patch, yet when they came to the end of the incline the Hawken was loaded and cocked.

  Smoky Woman cut eastward, walking faster. Flying Hawk stayed close to her, a shaft set to take wing.

  Nate walked backward, his gaze roving over the rim they had just vacated. When several shifting forms appeared, he whipped the Hawken to his shoulder. Hesitation seized him. He’d already wasted one shot. Why waste another? Let the savages come nearer. Then he would show them why he had won a prime buffalo robe for his marksmanship at the Rendezvous the year before.

  Huge boulders abruptly reared to the right and the left.

  On the one hand Nate was grateful for the cover. On the other he worried that the savages would take advantage of the situation by sneaking so close they couldn’t miss. Logic told him the Indians would try to slay Pegasus first since killing the horse meant stranding their quarry.

  The next moment Flying Hawk elevated his bow and let fly.

  A short shriek testified to his accuracy.