For her part, the mare extended her front legs and locked her knees at the same time she sank onto her haunches, her rear legs bent to support her weight. With her head tossed back and her spine arched, she slid down the precipitous incline on her buttocks, raising a cloud of dust in her wake.
Nate expected the animal to pitch forward at any second. He arched his own back, hauling on the reins for all he was worth, doing his best to slow their momentum. The mare’s wide eyes told him she was as frightened as him, and he felt sorry that his stupidity might cost them their lives.
A huge boulder loomed almost directly under them.
Turn! Nate’s mind screamed. Turn! He violently yanked on the reins, attempting to angle the mare to the left, but the animal had very little control over her direction and rate of descent. Gravity dictated both. He braced his moccasins in the stirrups to prevent from tumbling to the earth and offered a silent, sincere prayer for deliverance.
From somewhere up above came ferocious shouting.
The tall Blood! Nate had forgotten all about the Indian in the exigency of the moment. He was thankful for the billowing dust. If the warrior had a clear shot, he’d undoubtedly receive an arrow in the back. The Blood might fire a shaft anyway, and the prospect filled him with apprehension. He yearned to reach the bottom.
In a shower of loose dirt and sandy powder, the mare finally did.
Nate tugged on the reins with all his might and managed to force the horse to the left as she surged to her feet. They missed the boulder by inches. He slapped his legs against her sides, goading her into a run, and glanced up at the southern rim.
There stood the tall warrior and four others. They gestured at him and yelled excitedly.
Bending low over the mare’s neck, Nate threaded a course among the boulders and other obstructions such as mounds of dirt and an occasional log.
An arrow lanced down from above and sank into the soil almost under the horse’s pounding hooves. Then another struck the ground, and another.
Ignore them! Nate told himself. Pay attention to the route ahead and nothing else. A single misstep could result in tragedy. The mare had to be skillfully guided at all times.
Something sharp bit into his right shoulder and glanced off.
Nate raced onward. The perilous course required all of his horsemanship to negotiate. He lost all track of time and distance, riding hard for his very life, skirting boulder after boulder, glimpsing the towering walls on both sides, feeling hemmed in and vulnerable. For minutes he rode westward, and only when he happened to gaze up and saw trees lining both rims did he abruptly stop.
The mare was breathing deeply, her nostrils flaring.
Where were the Bloods?
Twisting in the saddle, Nate looked back, and was delighted and surprised to see he had gone several hundred yards into the forest and outdistanced the war party. He breathed as heavily as his mount, his blood pounding in his temples. The elation at escaping temporarily eclipsed an important consideration.
Now what?
He scrutinized the north and south crests, his forehead creasing in perplexity. His predicament wasn’t much better than before. Although he might, with supreme difficulty, be able to climb out by himself, he’d never abandon the mare. He was hemmed in with only two options, either going due east or due west. To go back the way he came constituted certain suicide, so he rode to the west, taking his time, conserving the mare’s energy and intently studying the ravine for a means out of the earth prison.
Where were Shakespeare and the two surviving trappers?
Nate speculated that his companions must be in the forest to the south, probably hiding from the Bloods. He doubted the frontiersman would leave the general vicinity until verifying his fate. If he fired a few shots to attract their attention, he’d also draw the Bloods to him like wolves to a helpless buck.
The trees on the rim cast long shadows into the ravine, and the high walls served to insulate the bottom from normal woodland noises. An eerie hush enshrouded the landscape.
Fidgeting nervously, Nate eagerly sought a way to reach the crest. Either crest. The clopping of the mare’s hooves only aggravated his anxiety. He tried to calm his jangled nerves, but inadvertently started when a rabbit scrambled from behind a boulder ahead and bounded to the west.
A rabbit?
Nate rode faster, trying to keep the long-eared bouncing ball of fur in sight. How had it gotten down there? Fallen? Jumped? Or was there a trail to the top, a trail to freedom?
The rabbit went around a log, then vanished.
Urging the mare forward, Nate hurried to the log and reined up. To the west were more boulders, and the ravine wound in a serpentine fashion for as far as he could see. There was no trace of the rabbit.
And no trail.
Annoyed, Nate resumed riding, searching every corner, scouring the walls. He thought of the Bloods, then suddenly remembered the Hawken wasn’t loaded.
How careless could he be!
Halting yet again, Nate slid down and took a minute to reload. As he was wrapping the ball in a patch he happened to glance to the rear and detected movement along the southern crest. He froze, watching intently, and distinguished the running form of a lone Indian.
The tall Blood.
Jolted into feverish action, Nate quickly finished reloading, swung into the saddle, and cut out to the west. He looked back, estimating the warrior must be fifty or sixty yards away, and brought the mare to a trot. If he could stay ahead of the Indian until a way out presented itself, he’d be all right. But what if there wasn’t a way out?
What if the ravine went on indefinitely?
The Blood suddenly uttered a harsh cry.
Nate glanced around and saw the warrior moving faster. He’d been spotted! The temptation to shoot was nearly irresistible. At such a range, and with so many convenient trees for the warrior to take cover behind, he’d likely wind up wasting the ball. He decided to refrain, to save the shot for when it would really be needed.
The ravine curved to the right.
With a last look at the Blood, Nate rode around the bend. In twenty feet the course changed again, bearing to the west for a short span before winding to the south. The sinuous chasm became more difficult to negotiate and the width tapered to ten feet.
An enormous downed tree almost blocked the bottom.
Nate swung to the right to skirt the obstacle. The limbs still bore green leaves, which indicated the tree had recently fallen into the ravine. He brushed at the longest branches with his left arm. Most were shattered or had been partly broken by the fall, and at ground level a twisted mass of foliage obscured the lower portion of the trunk.
Just then, from under the mass, issued a distinctive rattling, a sound made by only one type of creature in all creation.
Rattlesnake! The sound caused an involuntary ripple of fear to run along Nate’s spine. He glanced down, trying to spot the reptile, and took hold of the Hawken with both hands in case he needed to fire.
The mare suddenly reared, instinctively terrified by the noise.
Taken unawares, his grip on the reins slack, Nate completely lost his grasp and toppled backward. He landed hard on his shoulders and rolled to the right to avoid having his head caved in by a pounding hoof.
Uttering a fearful whinny, the horse took off, galloping westward.
Nate swept to his feet and saw the mare vanish around a turn, then glanced down at the foliage and glimpsed the rattler slithering under the trunk. He ran after his mount and covered fifteen yards before the futility of his pursuit brought him up short. The mare wasn’t likely to slow down until her fright subsided, which might take minutes. He couldn’t hope to catch her until then, so prudence dictated he should conserve his energy and do his best to stay ahead of the Blood.
A stinging sensation in his right shoulder reminded Nate of his wound, and he took a moment to examine a two-inch tear in the buckskin. The flesh underneath had been sliced open. Fortunately, the wound w
asn’t very deep and the blood loss had been minimal. After he made it back to the rendezvous he’d ask Winona to bandage the shoulder.
The clattering of falling rocks arose to the east.
Nate looked, and was astounded to see the tall warrior sliding down the wall of the ravine. He hoped the Blood would slip and plummet to the boulders below, but the man was endowed with extraordinary balance and reflexes.
The Blood slid on his buttocks and used his hands to retard his descent. He shoved away from the side when still ten feet above the ground and dropped next to a waist-high boulder, landing lightly with his knees bent. Voicing a shout of triumph while unslinging his bow from across his back, he turned and charged.
Chapter Fourteen
Nate snapped the rifle to his shoulder and took aim, but before he could fire the Blood ducked for cover behind a cluster of boulders thirty yards away. He recollected the many tales Shakespeare had told about the incredible feats of marksmanship Indians performed with bows and arrows, and he realized the Hawken didn’t give him that much of an advantage.
The tall warrior hadn’t shown himself yet.
Spinning, Nate ran as fast as his legs would carry him, weaving among rocks, boulders, and logs, repeatedly glancing over his shoulders. His moccasins crunched on the gravel and rocks underfoot. He came to the first turn and paused to study the ground he’d covered. There was still no sign of the Blood.
The warrior must be stalking him, Nate deduced, and raced around the turn. A straight stretch relatively clear of obstructions afforded him an opportunity to increase his lead on the Indian, and he ran the fifty feet to the next bend. A brief glance confirmed he’d left his adversary far behind.
Nate smiled and continued. Sweat caked his sides, legs, and back as he sprinted to the next turn, then the one after that. The mare’s tracks were imprinted in the soil here and there, inspiring him with the hope he could find his horse and escape before the Blood overtook him.
The sun climbed higher in the blue vault of the sky, casting more light and heat into the ravine.
Nate began to feel as if he was trapped in an oven. Perspiration coated his forehead and he licked his dry lips again and again. The Hawken, which was heavier than most other rifles anyway, felt even heavier. He checked to his rear every ten feet or so, mystified by the warrior’s absence.
What was the Blood up to?
After five minutes and two more bends, Nate stopped to catch his breath. He faced east and rested his hands on his thighs, inhaling deeply. A shadow flitted past his legs, and he tilted his head to discover a hawk circling over the north rim. He envied the bird its wings.
Not the slightest sound betrayed his foe.
So much for resting, Nate decided, and hurried to the next turn. He took this one slowly, grimacing at the discomfort in his lower legs, and halted in midstride at the sight of the mare, her reins caught in the barren branches of a dead tree that had succumbed to the elements and toppled into the ravine, many of its dried roots exposed up near the crest.
Overjoyed, Nate hurried to her side, soothing her by talking about how much he missed her and couldn’t wait to ride her again. She reacted skittishly for a bit, then calmed down. He gripped the reins and untangled them, then swung into the saddle.
So much for the Blood.
Brimming with self-confidence, Nate started to ride. The instant he turned, there came the soft patter of onrushing feet behind him. He tried to swing around and bring the rifle into play, sensing he was already too late. Strong hands gripped his buckskin shirt and he was hurled from the saddle, wincing in agony when he crashed into the tree and a limb gouged him in the ribs.
The warrior laughed.
Enraged, still clutching the rifle, Nate whirled and leveled the barrel. But the Indian had closed, a cruel smirk distorting his features, and he batted the Hawken aside, then sprang. The momentum propelled Nate backwards onto the trunk, jarring his spine, and the rifle was torn from his hands.
The Blood contemptuously tossed the gun aside and spoke a few words in his own tongue.
Nate barely heard. Panic flooded his mind and he surged upward, wildly swinging his fists. He clipped the warrior on the chin and delivered a left to the abdomen.
Unaccustomed to fisticuffs, the Indian was caught by surprise and doubled over. He recovered instantly, voiced an incensed bellow, and pounced.
Nate managed to land another solid blow to the face before the Blood rammed into him and drove him against the tree. The warrior pinned his arms to his sides, then picked him up bodily and threw him to the earth. He started to shove erect when a stout arm looped around his neck while a hand seized the back of his shirt and held him fast. Certain he was about to be strangled, Nate struggled in a frenzy, kicking and tugging on the arm clamped on his throat.
Strangely, nothing happened.
Bewildered, Nate ceased resisting. What was going on? Why hadn’t the warrior tried to choke him? For that matter, why had the Blood taken him alive when it would have been easier to slay him? The Indian had passed up a perfect opportunity to plant an arrow in his back, and yet—
Taken him alive!
Suddenly Nate perceived the ghastly reason. The warrior intended to take him to the Blood village! He knew about the horrible tortures the Indians inflicted on one another and on any captured whites, and he could well imagine the fate in store for him if he fell into their hands. He must escape!
But how?
The obvious occurred to him, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment that he’d let the panic eclipse his reason. He chided himself for his loss of control and let his hands fall to his sides. The Indian abruptly sent him sprawling to the ground on his stomach. Twisting, he looked up.
Grinning broadly, his face a malicious mask, the Blood gestured for his prisoner to stand. He exuded arrogance. Apparently believing he’d already subdued his quarry, the warrior exhibited rash overconfidence.
Nate set a resigned expression on his face and began to rise, keeping his back to the Indian, his right hand groping for a pistol. He glanced at the warrior, who was pulling a knife, then whipped his arm out and around and fired at point-blank range.
The ball took the Blood squarely in the forehead. He staggered backwards, then keeled over, the knife slipping from his limp fingers.
For a full ten seconds Nate simply stood there with his empty pistol pointed at the dead warrior. He involuntarily trembled, thinking of how close he had come to meeting his Maker. If the Blood hadn’t been so careless, his fate would have been sealed. He gazed down at himself and realized his buckskin shirt had hitched higher during the struggle, and a few folds of the material had then sagged over his pistols, partly concealing both. Perhaps, in the flush of combat, the Indian hadn’t noticed them.
Sighing in relief, Nate reclaimed his rifle. The mare had only gone a dozen feet and was calmly staring at him. He took the time to reload the Hawken and the pistol, then mounted and gazed at the corpse.
What about the scalp?
The Indians and many of the whites regarded the taking of the enemy’s hair as a prestigious act. A scalp was a symbol of bravery and manliness, and a collection of ten or twenty wasn’t all that uncommon. Many warriors, in particular, took great pride in displaying the scalps they’d obtained; one Bannock chief was known to have fringed his shirt, leggings, and buffalo robe with the hair of his foes.
Nate shook his head and rode to the west. He’d lifted a few scalps himself, but he found the practice repugnant. No one had seen him slay the Blood, so no one could criticize him for failing to take the Indian’s hair. Maybe other Bloods would find the body and take it back to their village. If not, the wildlife would dispose of the corpse soon enough.
He rode hard, pushing the mare, eager to find a way out of the ravine and hoping to do so sooner rather than later. A mile went by, then two. The walls narrowed to six feet apart, and on several occasions he was compelled to dismount and move limbs and small logs out of the way. Just when he began to
think there really might not be an avenue of escape, he rounded a bend and discovered two surprises.
The north side of the ravine went on for another hundred yards, ending at a wall of solid rock, but the south side had buckled at some point in the past. The earth had caved in, resulting in an easily negotiated incline from the bottom to the rim.
And perched on that rim were three familiar figures, one of whom called out happily, “Nate!”
“Shakespeare!” Nate cried in delight, and galloped up the incline to rejoin his friend, Bannon, and the other trapper.
The frontiersman beamed and moved his horse next to the mare so he could reach over and clasp Nate’s arm. “Thank the Lord you’re safe! I’ve been worried to death about you.”
“I’ve been worried to death about me too,” Nate said, and grinned.
“We heard a shot awhile ago. Was that you?”
“Yep. One of the Bloods caught up with me.”
Bannon peered down into the fissure. “What happened to him?”
“He won’t attack any more trappers,” Nate stated with finality, then looked at Shakespeare. “But what about you? How did you get here?”
“We’ve been searching for a way down in there ever since Bannon told me you’d gone over the edge. I didn’t see you fall in or we would have started looking sooner. As it was, we rode a couple of miles from that field where the Bloods swarmed after us before I stopped and discovered you were missing. Then we circled around to the west, figuring to avoid the Bloods if they were still on our trail, and doubled back in this direction. Just a minute ago we found this way down, and we were debating whether all of us should go or only me when you showed up,” the frontiersman related.
“What now?” Nate asked. “Do we keep looking for the missing trapper?”
“With a war party of Bloods in the area?” Shakespeare shook his head. “Besides, we couldn’t do much more searching before dark. Let’s head back to the rendezvous and report to Gabe.”
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 12