Wilderness Double Edition #7

by David Robbins

  Twelve

  Zach King was out of breath by the time he crawled to the top of the low hill, not from the exertion required but from the tingling excitement that rippled through his entire body, excitement so overwhelmingly intense he feared he might pass out. He paused, took a breath, and licked his lips, then glanced over his shoulder at the base of the hill where Mary and the pup stood. Over the past several days he had taught the little wolf to stay, and most of the time it obeyed reasonably well. Now, more than ever, it must do as he wanted, since any noise made might forewarn their enemies.

  Holding the rifle close to his chest, Zach resumed his ascent. At the top a bush afforded enough shelter for him to rise to his knees. Carefully parting the thin branches, he gazed at the meadow below and nearly cried out in his consternation.

  There were four Indians in sight, two of whom were busy gathering wood, a large pile of which already had been collected and placed on a spot between two adjacent cottonwoods. The other two were engaged in the act of tying his pa to those same trees, only they were tying him upside down so that his head hung a few feet above the growing stack of branches.

  Zach’s excitement gave way to unbridled fear. He knew enough of Indian ways to know they were going to burn his pa alive, a grisly form of torture made worse by the great suffering the victim endured since the flames were not permitted to engulf the unfortunate at once, but instead would burn slowly and thereby heighten the anguish.

  From Zach’s perch he could tell his pa was bad off. Blood caked his father’s face and there were many welts and bruises. Worse, his pa hung limply, making no attempt to resist as the pair of warriors lashed him tight to the trees with stout cords. Tears welled up in Zach’s eyes and he fought them back. His pa would soon die unless he did something.

  But what? Zach wondered. He stood no chance against four grown men who would not think twice about slaying him on sight. Suddenly Zach stiffened, the thought forgotten. During the days spent on the trail he had figured out there were five warriors in the band, no difficult feat since two of the animals, evidently the two mules he saw tethered with the horses near the camp, had left shallower hoof prints, indicating those two had not borne the weight of riders. So his guess had proven right, but where was the fifth warrior?

  Zach scanned the meadow and the surrounding forest. The last one must be in the woods somewhere, he figured, and he dared not make his move until the man reappeared. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise at a crucial moment.

  From the style of the shirts, leggins, and moccasins the Indians wore, Zach knew they weren’t Blackfeet as he’d initially suspected. From the direction they were taking to go home, they might be Bloods, Piegans, or even Gros Ventres. It mattered little, since all of them had vowed to drive the whites from the mountains.

  The pile of wood was growing apace. Soon the fire would be started. The warriors were talking and laughing as they worked. Every so often one of them, a lean, hawkish man, would walk up to their prisoner and strike him in a fit of sheer savagery.

  Zach watched and went all cold inside. The time had come. His pa might already be close to death, so he dared not wait until the fifth Indian came back. Easing back from the bush, he angled to the left, working his way down the hill until he was in a thicket. From there he glided toward the camp, placing his feet down slowly and with his toes pointed inward as he had been taught so he made no noise. He stepped over twigs, avoided brush that might snag his clothes.

  Soon Zach was close to where the horses and mules were tied. Beyond was the camp fire, and beyond that the pair of saplings from which his pa hung. He was close enough now to see a rivulet of blood flowing from his pa’s mouth. For the first time in his young life, Zach experienced an unquenchable impulse to kill.

  Flattening, Zach inched toward the animals. They were facing the fire so they wouldn’t know he was there until he was right among them. Hopefully, they wouldn’t whinny in alarm. He came up behind a mule, rose cautiously into a crouch, and patted the mule lightly on the flank as he stepped to the rope and drew his knife. Next to him a horse shifted and turned its head to eye him quizzically. Perhaps the fact he was a child allayed any fears the animal harbored, because it shortly looked away and ignored him.

  Zach moved down the line, cutting each horse loose, keeping his eyes on the Indians in case one should face his way. None of them, though, were paying the least bit of attention to the animals; they were all too busy preparing the fire. At the end of the rope Zach ducked low and went around the last horse into tall grass.

  Once under cover, Zach moved swiftly around behind the animals and past them into the sheltering forest. Rising on the shaded side of a towering pine, he cast about for a suitable stone, picked it up, and began to chuck it. Then his nerve faltered. What if something went wrong? he thought, and he actually trembled. The same old nagging objection presented itself, the thought that he was just a boy about to fight skilled warriors and he didn’t stand a prayer.

  Then Zach stared at his pa, the man he so dearly loved, the man who would do anything for him, who had saved his life more times than he cared to count. Could he do less in return? Gripping the stone firmly, he checked once to be sure the fifth warrior had not shown up yet, picked the nearest mule as the best target, and hurled the stone with all his might while at the self same instant he vented a screech like those he had heard panthers make.

  Braying wildly, the mule executed a vertical leap, its back bent, its legs as stiff as boards. As it came down it crashed into the other mule, which in turn was knocked against a horse, and a moment later every last animal was in fearful flight across the meadow, the fleet horses in the lead.

  Zach was also moving. He remembered what his pa had once said about fighting against superior odds: “Never stay in one place too long, son, or they’ll pin you down and kill you at their convenience. Keep on the go and you can keep them off guard.” So, bent at the waist, he dashed northward until he was about even with the cottonwoods but still fifteen yards from them.

  A large log offered Zach a place to hide. On his hands and knees, he lifted his head to see what the Indians were doing. Two of them were in hot pursuit of the animals, but the other two were advancing with weapons at the ready toward the spot where he had just been. By their tread and their attitude they were apparently uncertain as to the cause of the screech.

  Zach waited until the two were out of sight before taking the next bold step. Without hesitation, he slid over the log and sprinted toward his unconscious father. He stayed low, watching the pair across the meadow enter the trees after the horses and mules. In moments he was at the pile of limbs. Crouching, he reached up and tenderly touched his father’s severely bruised cheek. “Pa? It’s me, Zach.”

  There was no response.

  “Pa?” Zach persisted urgently, inadvertently raising his voice. “Can you hear me? You have to wake up?” He shook his father’s shoulder. “Please, Pa!”

  A few seconds went by. Nate’s eyelids fluttered, and he became dimly aware of being upside down and in the most exquisite pain he had ever known. He also glimpsed his son, as if through a dense fog. “Zach?” he mumbled. “Is that you, son?”

  “Yep,” Zach answered, his throat so constricted he could barely talk. “We have to get you out of here, Pa. Those men will be back in a bit. Do you understand?”

  “Do what you have to,” Nate mumbled.

  “Get set for a fall,” Zach cautioned, applying his knife to the cords. “You’re too heavy for me to hold up.” He cut rapidly, the razor edge parting loop after loop. First he did the wrists. Then, resting the Kentucky rifle on the stacked branches, he quickly shimmied up the left-hand cottonwood until he was high enough to sever the cord binding his father’s ankle. The instant he did, his father dropped, banging against the right-hand tree, still held fast by the cord around the other ankle.

  In the forest someone began shouting.

  Zach’s scalp prickled as he scrambled down, stepped to the other
tree, and worked his way up to where he could get at the last cords. Feverishly, he sawed through them, and tried to grab hold of his father’s leg to keep his pa from falling too hard. In this he only partially succeeded.

  The shock of hitting the ground revived Nate again. He found himself on his back, staring up into a tree where his son clung to the slim trunk. “This isn’t the time to be playing around,” he chided, and tried to stand but couldn’t. His legs were like mush, his mind not much better.

  Zach let go and dropped. “Let me help, Pa,” he said, looping an arm around his father’s waist. The strain was tremendous and his knees nearly buckled, but somehow he got his father upright. “Hold steady now,” he advised, and released his hold long enough to grab the rifle. “All right. Here we go.”

  To Nate they seemed to be walking in slow motion, even slower than his brain was working. He had difficulty recalling where he was or what was happening. Gradually, the more he moved, the more his circulation was restored, the more of his capture and subsequent torture he relived in his mind. He spied a log ahead. Abruptly, with startling vividness, he realized the grave risk his son was taking and his heart swelled with pride. “Where are the Gros Ventres?” he asked softly.

  “Two of them are after their horses,” Zach whispered. “Two more are in the trees yonder. I don’t rightly know where the fifth one got to.”

  “You shouldn’t have done this. You could be killed.”

  “If you don’t go home, I don’t go home.”

  “Zach—”

  “Don’t talk now, Pa. They might hear you.”

  Nate was too weak to protest. He did his best to walk under his own power, but his long-unused legs refused to cooperate. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned and checked the meadow and the line of trees to his left. “No Gros Ventres yet,” he mumbled.

  Zach prudently skirted the log, knowing his father was incapable of climbing over it. He breathed a hair easier when they were under cover, but he never slackened his pace. The Gros Ventres would return to the cottonwoods at any moment, and when they found their captive gone they would fly into a rage. If they were competent trackers, and most warriors were to some degree, they’d immediately give chase.

  Suddenly Zach remembered the telltale spoor he must have left between the pine tree and the log. He’d tried to walk lightly, but everyone, no matter how good they were, made tiny smudges or bent grass or weeds as they went by. It surprised him that the two Gros Ventres who had gone into the forest hadn’t found his trail yet

  The train of thought prompted Zach to look back, and it was well he did, for stealthily closing in were the warriors in question, the tall one in the lead grinning as if he was playing some grand game. The pair were less than ten feet away; they could have slain Zach and his father at any time. That they hadn’t told Zach they wanted him and his pa alive.

  “They’re on us!” Zach shouted, slipping his left arm free and spinning. He brought the rifle up as he completed the turn. The tall warrior, still grinning, leaped, his arms outstretched, making no attempt to employ his lance. For a heartbeat Zach felt fear tug at his innards, and then he had the hammer pulled back and his finger was squeezing the trigger even though he didn’t have the stock braced against his shoulder as he should.

  The Kentucky boomed. A cloud of smoke enveloped the warrior’s face. Zach was knocked backwards. He stumbled, and fell to one knee. Reversing his grip on the rifle, he held it like a club, ready to rain blows on the tall Gros Ventre. But there was no need. The warrior lay on his stomach, his head cocked to one side, his eyes locked wide in amazement, a gaping hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Through the smoke rushed the second warrior, his features contorted in hatred. It was Bobcat, and his fury at having witnessed Rolling Thunder’s death was boundless. Whatever their differences, they had been friends, had hunted and fought together for many years. Now he would avenge the loss. He blocked the awkward swing of the heavy rifle, grasped the barrel, and wrenched the gun loose. “Puny mosquito!” he rasped, throwing the gun down. “I will peel your skin off piece by piece!”

  Zach didn’t understand a word of the Gros Ventre tongue, but the meaning was clear. Drawing his knife, he slashed at the warrior’s leg and missed. In trying to dart to one side, he misjudged his enemy’s speed, and had his knife arm seized in an unbreakable grasp. He tried to pull loose, but was jerked off his feet and dangled in the air like a helpless minnow. His knife was tom from him and allowed to fall.

  “You are brave, child,” Bobcat declared. He glanced at Nate, who had collapsed and was doubled over. “If you were not white I would take you into my lodge and raise you as my own.” Scowling, he shook Zach violently. “But you are white. You are an insect to be ground underfoot.”

  Zach had his teeth clenched to keep them from crunching together as he was shaken. He struggled uselessly to tear his arm free, then kicked at the warrior’s groin. Much to his surprise, his foot connected, the Gros Ventre gurgled and turned scarlet, and he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground.

  “You die, boy!” Bobcat screamed, a hand over his privates. “Sing your death song!” Hissing, he drew his knife and pounced.

  Lying flat on his back, Zach was helpless. He brought up his hands to try to ward off the blade and cast his final-ever glance at his father, but his father wasn’t there. The next second he heard a thud and a grunt, and he looked up in bewilderment to behold a knife hilt jutting from the side of the warrior’s neck. Then, over the Gros Ventre’s shoulder, he saw his pa.

  So intent had Bobcat been on the young one, he hadn’t seen Grizzly Killer pick up the boy’s discarded knife and rise. The first intimation he had of danger was the searing pain of the blade’s penetration. He reached up, touched the hilt, realized what had occurred, and ignoring the pain, whirled to plunge his own knife into Grizzly Killer. Unexpectedly, his ankles were seized by slender arms. His momentum brought him down, and as he fell Grizzly Killer moved aside.

  Bobcat saw the boy holding onto his legs and tried to kick the gnat off. He opened his mouth to vent his fury, but all that came out was blood. In a burst of temper, he seized the hilt of the knife in his neck, ripped it out, and leaned forward to plant both blades in the boy’s back. He never completed the act. His head abruptly swam, his arms became leaden. He sagged, keeled over on his side, and felt his body convulsing. Stop it! he wanted to scream. I have whites to kill! Through a crimson haze he saw the boy stand, saw the father appear beside him. Vainly he endeavored to lunge at them, but a black veil enfolded him in its ebony clutches.

  “He’s dead, son,” Nate said softly, leaning on Zach’s shoulder for support. “Now get me out of here before the others show up.”

  Zach nodded mechanically, watching the growing puddle form under the slain Gros Ventre.

  “Now,” Nate reiterated.

  As if awakening from a deep sleep, Zach stirred to life and nodded. He reclaimed his knife, shoved it in its sheath, then gave the other knife to his father, who also took the lance and tomahawk belonging to the tall warrior. Zach scooped up his rifle.

  “This way, Pa. We have to go south now.”

  They hurried as best they were able, managing no better than a rapid walk, the boy lending a hand when the father’s exhaustion gained the upper hand. Zach expected to see the remaining warriors come racing through the brush at any moment, and he wanted to stop so he could reload the rifle. Every delay, however, increased the odds of being overtaken. They must press on and hope they reached the mare before the Gros Ventres showed.

  In a short while the hill reared before them, and Zach led his father to the left along its base. They bypassed the thicket since Zach wasn’t sure his father could make it through, and as they stepped into the open a hair-raising shriek pierced the air.

  Loud Talker was the one who uttered it as he took several long strides and swooped down from the slope above them like an oversized bird of prey. His powerful body rammed into Grizzly Killer’s chest,
clipping the boy in the bargain, and all three of them went down in a whirl of arms and legs and weapons.

  The first on his feet, Loud Talker dove at Grizzly Killer. He rated the father as the deadlier foe, the one to be dispatched first. In so doing, he neglected to take into account the compelling power of the love of a child for its parent. His right hand was on Grizzly Killer’s throat, his left sweeping the tomahawk high for a lethal stroke, when excruciating, burning pain exploded in his lower back and spiked the length of his spine.

  Loud Talker pivoted on his left heel, or tried to, but was thwarted when his legs went numb. Stupefied, he spied the boy a few feet off holding a dripping knife. “You!” he blurted, whipping the tomahawk back to throw it. Again was he frustrated when his arms also went numb. Then his neck. And his face. The boy speared the knife at his chest, but all Loud Talker could do was gape in dumb disbelief. He felt nothing, no pain, no blood on his skin, absolutely nothing until an icy mist gushed from within the core of his being and bore him into an abysmal chasm.

  Breathlessly, Zach leaped clear as the warrior toppled. He dashed to his rising father and wordlessly offered his body as a living crutch. Together they hastened toward Mary, visible through the trees.

  Suddenly the fourth Gros Ventre was upon them. Walking Bear had been sprinting over the top of the hill when Loud Talker was struck low, and with his lips set in a grim line he bore down on the shuffling white and the slight breed. Slaughter was in his heart, fire in his glare, a lance poised in his right hand. He knew they heard him, saw them swing around, and threw his lance.

  Had it not been for the tomahawk Nate held in his left hand, his life would have ended right then and there. The lance struck the flat head of the tomahawk, smashing the weapon against his chest and stunning him. But the head deflected the tip of the lance enough to send it sailing over his shoulder.

  Walking Bear never broke stride. In a trice he was on the boy, a corded arm clubbing him to the ground before the knife could be employed. Like a striking snake his hand lashed out, closing on the boy’s throat. Gleefully, Walking Bear hoisted the squirming Zach into the air and squeezed.