Soon the search party came to a stream and Shakespeare called a brief halt to water the horses and refresh the riders.
Standing on the bank, holding the mare’s reins in his left hand, Nate saw a large fish swim past. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never get over the beauty of the wilderness,” he commented.
“You too?” Bannon said. “I originally came out here intending to stay a year. There’s a quality about living in harmony with nature that gets into a man’s blood. I could no more go back to live in the States than I could stop breathing.”
“Me neither,” Nate said, and the revelation startled him. In the back of his mind he’d always believed he would be going back to New York City one day. Was he serious? Did he really prefer to live in the wild, to live the life of an Indian?
“Most men feel the same way after they’ve been out here a while,” Shakespeare mentioned. “If you want to know the truth, I believe this type of life is the kind God intended for us. He put Adam and Eve in a garden, didn’t he? There must have been a good reason. I think that somewhere along the line mankind lost track of the things that really matter. Those people who live in the cities would rather be comfortable than truly free. They’d rather be secure than independent.”
“Is that wrong?” Nate asked.
“I’m not the one to judge. I guess every person has to decide for themself how they want to live. And in the long run they’ll have to answer for their decision to their Maker.”
Bannon chuckled. “Gabe told us you were a thinker, but I had no idea.”
“You ought to know by now that living in the wild makes a man think about the important things in life.”
“Why’s that?” asked one of the other men.
“Because out here we’re face to face with death every day of the week. Out here we have eternity staring us right in the face, so to speak. When a man knows he’s standing on the brink, he just naturally wants to find out the meaning of it all,” Shakespeare said. “Then too, all those long winter days and nights have to be spent doing something.”
A skinny trapper laughed. “Why do you think I just bought me a Bannock woman? I know how I plan to spend my winter.”
General mirth ensued.
“Okay. Let’s mount up,” the frontiersman directed, and did so.
Nate climbed onto the mare, and in a few seconds he was following Shakespeare along the west bank of the stream. He spied an eagle soaring on the air currents and grinned, feeling at home.
For two more hours they scoured the area for some sign of the missing man. They were skirting the base of a mountain range when they reached a small lake. To the east reared a stark peak. To the north were a few hills. Off to the west, one hundred yards at the most, lay an expanse of verdant forest.
Shakespeare rode his white horse up to the water and was about to dismount when he tensed, his eyes narrowing. “Hold on,” he said.
“What is it?” Bannon inquired.
“Tracks,” the frontiersman replied, and slid down. He knelt and gingerly touched his fingers to the soft earth. “Other horses have been here. Indian horses would be my guess.”
Nate leaned down but could barely distinguish the faint impressions in the soil. “How long ago?”
“Nine or ten days, maybe.”
Bannon rode closer. “Then they’re nothing for us to worry about. The Indians who made them are probably miles away by this time.”
“You hope,” said the skinny trapper.
Shakespeare straightened, stared westward for a moment, then swung into the saddle and rode hard for a stand of cottonwoods twenty yards to the northwest. “Quickly!” he urged them. “Take cover.”
Startled, Nate obeyed. He gazed at the forest and saw no indication of the reason for the haste, but he trusted the frontiersman implicitly.
Bannon and the others were doing the same.
In seconds they darted in among the trees and reined up. Shakespeare moved to the west side of the stand, staying far enough back so as not to be visible from afar, and peered at the distant tree line.
“What did you see?” Bannon queried nervously.
“A jay.”
“A jay?” Bannon repeated quizzically.
“Yep. Flapping into the air as if its tail feathers were on fire.”
The skinny trapper snorted. “You got us all excited over a dumb bird?”
“Nature has its rhythms, friend, and the truly dumb one is the person who ignores them. These mountain jays are normally quite friendly. They like to stay close to our camps in the hope of getting a bite to eat. Takes a lot to spook one, and the jay I saw was definitely spooked.”
“I’m not arguing with that. But the bird could have been frightened by a fox or a bobcat. It’s foolish for us to be hiding like this.”
“Is it?” Shakespeare responded, and the certainty in his tone prompted every man to gaze to the west.
Nate felt the back of his neck tingle. He grasped the Hawken with both hands and hunched over the pommel.
“I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the skinny trapper.
A large body of Indians were emerging from the trees. There were dozens of them all on foot. Most wore scant clothing. And all were armed, either with war clubs, fusees, bows and arrows, or tomahawks. They headed directly toward the small lake.
“Are they Blackfeet?” Bannon whispered.
“No.”
“Really?” Bannon said, louder this time, transparently relieved by the news.
“No, they’re not Blackfeet,” Shakespeare reiterated. “Those are Bloods.”
“Dear God!” one of the men declared.
“If they catch us, we’re dead men,” added another.
Nate stared at the Indians, then at the frontiersman. “Who are these Bloods? They sound worse than the Blackfeet.”
“In a way they are. I told you once before that the Blackfeet not only constantly make war on the whites, they also attack almost every other tribe in the Rockies. They’re on friendly terms with only two others, the Piegans and the Bloods. Between the three of them they control most of the land from the Saskatchewan River to the upper Missouri.”
“If that lost fellow ran into this war party, he’s never coming back,” the skinny trapper said.
“What do we do?” Bannon wanted to know. “Should we make a run for it? We have horses. It will be impossible for them to overtake us.”
Nate gazed back the way they had come. There was no cover for hundreds of yards, which would expose them to a hail of arrows. The nearest shelter consisted of a cluster of boulders located nine hundred feet to the southeast. He started to shift his attention to the west again when, to his sudden consternation, an Indian came in view around the south side of the boulders, then another and another and another. The warrior in the lead had his gaze fixed on the ground, as if tracking, and it abruptly occurred to him just who the band must be following. “Shakespeare!” he declared, and pointed.
The frontiersman and the rest of the men looked. Several of the trappers uttered oaths.
“More Bloods,” Shakespeare said. “And they’re right on our trail.”
“We can’t stay here,” Bannon declared. “They’ll find us for sure.” He hefted his rifle. “What do you say, McNair?”
Nate didn’t envy the frontiersman. He didn’t know what he would do if he had to make the decision. Fleeing to the west and the south was out of the question. Going due east was impossible due to the rocky peak. To the southwest lay Bear Lake, but if they rode in that direction they would pass between the two groups of Indians and expose themselves to a lethal volley. Going northward along the lake shore and to the hills beyond seemed to be their safest option. A moment later he received confirmation.
“We’ll go north,” Shakespeare said. “Move slowly to the north edge of these cottonwoods, then ride hard when I give the word.”
Together they turned their animals and complied, each man doing his best to keep his animal quiet and to stay in the sh
adows. They were all aware of the consequences should they be discovered.
Shouting broke out behind them. The band coming from the southeast, which numbered about twenty, spotted the other Bloods approaching from the west. Several warriors were yelling at once.
“What are they saying?” Nate asked.
“The smaller band is telling the large band about the fresh tracks they’ve been following. One of the warriors is certain there must be white men nearby,” Shakespeare translated.
More shouting ensued.
“Just our luck,” the frontiersman muttered. “The Bloods have several parties out hunting for whites.”
Nate patted his mare, hoping she wouldn’t whinny, and stopped when the others did. Ahead lay a field, perhaps two hundred yards in length, then the hills. At the very end of the field rose a long, low knoll.
“Everyone ready?” Shakespeare asked.
“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Bannon stated.
“I’m ready,” the skinny trapper said. “Last one to those hills is a pincushion.”
One of the men foolishly laughed.
Shakespeare abruptly urged his horse forward. “Ride for your lives, men!”
Ride they did, bursting from the cottonwoods at a full gallop and racing toward the knoll. The skinny trapper, astride a fine brown stallion, took an early lead.
Piercing war whoops and yells of rage erupted to their rear, a commingled savage chorus that echoed off the nearby mountain and added impetus to the flight of the six whites.
Nate glanced over his left shoulder and saw the large party of Bloods sprinting in pursuit. He marveled at their speed. Although afoot, the Indians were as fleet as deer, covering the ground in great leaping strides, their arms and legs pumping. He knew his mare could outrun them, yet he still felt a twinge of dread at the thought of being overtaken. He’d heard countless stories about the atrocities committed by Indians, about the brutal beatings and grueling tortures they inflicted. He remembered a tale Shakespeare once told about a Blackfoot warrior captured by the Crows. They had held their captive down while one of them sliced open the Blackfoot’s stomach and ripped out the intestines. According to Shakespeare, the Blackfoot had not so much as whimpered. Nate doubted he would be as brave if the same thing happened to him.
The skinny trapper had pulled out a good twenty feet in front of his companions, and he was furiously striving to goad his stallion to go even faster.
A hasty look to the right revealed the smaller band was also in frenzied pursuit, and Nate kept low in the saddle in case the Bloods cut loose with their bows and guns.
It was well he did.
An instant later an arrow whizzed past and smacked into the earth not a yard from his left leg.
Nate focused on the knoll and concentrated on reaching it to the exclusion of all else. His body flowed with the swaying of the mare, his left hand gripping the reins while his right held the Hawken. He stayed close to Shakespeare. The other trappers had fanned out a bit to his right and left, all except for the skinny one, who was now thirty feet ahead of everyone else.
Whooping wildly, the Bloods were running for all they were worth but still falling behind.
Confidence welled in Nate. Once the trappers were over the knoll, the danger would be past. More arrows were descending. So far, undoubtedly due to the fact the warriors were shooting on the run, none had scored a hit. The fusees opened up, trade guns the Indians received from the Hudson’s Bay Company and others, smooth-bored flintlocks that were generally quite inferior to the typical rifles used by the trappers.
The horses covered the ground swiftly. Fewer and fewer arrows landed around the men.
“Those savages will never take our hair!” Bannon shouted when they had gone a hundred and fifty yards.
“Don’t count your chickens until they’re hatched,” Shakespeare advised.
“What can go wrong now?” Bannon retorted, and laughed in elation.
Nate smiled himself. Back in the cottonwoods he’d felt the chill of impending death. Now he experienced the warmth of the sun on his back and the flush of triumph at their narrow escape. Life seemed sweeter. He thrilled to the sensation of simply being alive, of knowing he would see Winona again and hold her in his arms.
The skinny trapper was gazing back at the Bloods and cackling, mocking them, letting his stallion gallop at full speed. He reached the gently sloping knoll well before his comrades, and he was still chortling when his mount came to the crest.
Both of them abruptly disappeared.
Nate blinked, not quite believing his own eyes. One second the trapper and the stallion had been there; the next they were gone. He exchanged puzzled glances with several of the others, and all of them slowed, riding up the knoll cautiously. Not until they came to the rim did Nate comprehend, and suddenly his feelings of imminent doom returned.
Below them lay a ravine forty feet deep and thirty feet wide. At the bottom, lying in disjointed heaps in the midst of scattered boulders, were the skinny trapper and his stallion. Neither so much as twitched. Both were splattered with blood.
Nate took one look, then glanced to the rear at the Bloods. The Indians had spread out across the field and were charging with renewed vigor, as if they knew all about the ravine.
As if they knew the white men were trapped.
Chapter Thirteen
“Give them a volley to slow them down!” Shakespeare bellowed, wheeling his white horse. He took quick aim and fired, his rifle booming and billowing smoke.
A Blood warrior carrying a bow jerked backwards and toppled to the grass.
Nate spun the mare, raised the Hawken to his right shoulder, took a bead on a strapping Blood armed with a fusee, held his breath to steady the barrel, and added his shot to those of his companions.
The warrior with the fusee dropped the gun, clutched at his chest, and fell.
Other Bloods were also on the ground.
“Ride to the west!” Shakespeare directed, and goaded his mount in that direction.
“What about Yates?” Bannon yelled.
“There’s nothing we can do for him now,” Shakespeare replied. “We’ve got to save our own hides.”
They rode at a breakneck pace along the rim, heading for the forest where they could lose themselves in the trees.
Nate stared at the Bloods, who had stopped and were attending those who had fallen. The respite would be all too brief. Already several warriors were gesturing and urging the others to continue the pursuit.
Shakespeare had taken the lead, riding superbly, seemingly a part of the animal under him, his long gray hair flying.
Could they do it? Nate wondered. Could they reach the sanctuary of the woods before the Indians cut them off? He thought of poor Yates and the brown stallion lying at the bottom of the ravine, and frowned. He disliked leaving the man there, possibly still alive and badly injured, but the frontiersman had been right. Under the circumstances, what else could they do?
The Bloods nearest the treeline sprinted to the northwest, attempting to intercept the trappers. One warrior in particular, a tall Blood with long legs, easily outdistanced the other members of the war party and closed rapidly.
Nate wished he could take the time to reload his Hawken. Because the Bloods to the west were closer to the trees and were running at an angle, the Indians had a shorter space to cover than the horses. Even though the animals were faster, having more ground to cover made the life-and-death race much too close. Thank goodness he had both pistols tucked under his belt!
Arrows rained down again, a few at first and then an increasing number as the warriors found the range.
One of the trappers screamed.
Nate looked over his shoulder and saw the last man in line tumble from the saddle, a shaft imbedded in his head. He recalled an Indian trick he had learned and employed it, swinging down on the far side of the mare while hooking his left leg over the saddle and his arm around the pommel. Now he was almost impossible to
hit. But the Indians could always go for the horse.
For dreadful, tense seconds—each one an eternity it itself—the desperate race went on.
The ravine narrowed near the trees to only fifteen feet in width. The sides were too steep to negotiate. Boulders lay strewn all along the bottom, apparently dislodged by heavy rains.
Nate stared at the point where the ravine and the forest met. The chasm might have been formed by an ancient earthquake or a flash flood, and the rift had neatly divided the woodland into two separate tracks. The trees bordered the very edges, rendering passage along the crest impossible.
Shakespeare was almost there.
The tall Blood had drawn uncomfortably close, within twenty yards of the fissure. He carried a slender bow in his left hand, which he whipped up and extended as his right hand closed on an arrow, and he halted to take better aim.
Nate peered around the mare’s neck and saw the warrior drawing the string back.
One of the other trappers pulled a pistol and fired a wild shot that missed.
Methodically, almost leisurely, the Blood sighted along the shaft.
With a start, Nate perceived the warrior was aiming at his mare! If the animal should be hit, both of them might topple into the ravine and be dashed to broken bits on the boulders. He couldn’t hang there and do nothing! Instantly he swung upright again, grabbed the reins with his right hand, and clawed at a pistol with his left. Even as he did, he realized he was too late.
The warrior let the arrow fly.
Nate saw the shaft streaking toward him. He instinctively went to remove himself from its path by sliding over the side of the mare again, but in his haste and excitement he committed a grave blunder. His right hand tightened and jerked on the reins, and the mare reacted as she always did; she promptly obeyed. Before he awoke to his mistake, the damage had been done.
The horse obediently swerved, right over the edge of the ravine.
In a shocking flash of insight, Nate comprehended the awful truth and straightened. Below them lay certain death. He envisioned himself being crushed to a pulp, and gulped.
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 11