Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2)

by Robbins, David

  “I’m for that,” Bannon concurred, and glanced at Nate. “How the hell did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  Bannon nodded at the ravine. “Survive falling in there. Either you’re the best horseman who ever lived, or the luckiest son of a bitch alive.”

  Shakespeare winked at Nate, then turned to the trappers. “Didn’t you know? Grizzly Killer leads a charmed life. He’s also one of the toughest men in the Rockies. Why do you think the Indians respect him so highly?”

  Bannon shook his head and chuckled. “I’m beginning to believe the stories I’ve heard are true.”

  “They are,” Shakespeare stated, and wheeled his horse. “I’d suggest we move before the Bloods find us.”

  “I’m all for that,” chimed in the other trapper.

  “Then let’s ride,” the frontiersman proposed, and headed to the south.

  Nate followed as closely as the trees and the press of undergrowth would allow. He thought of Winona and longed to hold her in his arms. After the harrowing ordeal in the ravine, he was happy to be alive and thankful for the blessings life had to offer. Once again an essential fact about the wilderness had been impressed upon him. A man never knew from one day to the next whether he’d be alive to greet the dawn, so he might as well live each moment to the fullest.

  “Say, McNair?” Bannon spoke up.

  “Yes?”

  “What about Yates?”

  “What about him?”

  Bannon gestured to the east. “Shouldn’t we go back and check? He could still be alive.”

  “You saw the blood. It looked as if every bone in his body was busted. I doubt very much that he’s still alive.”

  “Don’t we owe it to him to make sure?” Bannon persisted. “He’s a friend of mine. I feel bad about just leaving him there.”

  The frontiersman reined up. “All right. But since the Bloods are probably still in the area, we should take a vote on it. Nate, what do you say?”

  “I vote we take the risk.”

  The other trapper shook his head vigorously. “You can count me out. I’m not about to go back there, and anyone who does is asking for an arrow in the back.”

  “I thought you liked Yates, Hopper,” Bannon said. “You shared a drink with him many a time.”

  Hopper nodded. “Sharing a drink with a man is one thing. Dying for him is another. Besides, Yates is already dead.”

  “We don’t know if he is or not.”

  “I’m not going,” Hopper declared, “and that’s final.”

  Shakespeare turned his horse. “Then you can ride back to the rendezvous by yourself.”

  “What?” Hopper responded, blinking a few times. “By myself?”

  “You certainly can’t expect us to come all the way back here after we check on Yates. We’ll be making a beeline for Bear Lake.”

  “You can’t leave me alone. There are Bloods all over the place,” Hopper stated anxiously.

  “Either you go it alone or you ride with us,” Shakespeare said. “Take your pick.”

  Nate saw fear flicker in Hopper’s dark eyes, and he felt a measure of disgust. He couldn’t fault anyone for not wanting to die, but the trapper’s blatant cowardice repulsed him. Being afraid was a normal reaction to danger. The true test of manhood lay in conquering such fear instead of letting terror gain the upper hand.

  “Let’s go,” Shakespeare said, and rode to the east.

  Nate did likewise, Bannon on his right, and glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t at all surprised a few seconds later when Hopper elected to go with them.

  “I’ve decided to come along,” the trapper announced. “You might need my help if you run into the savages.”

  “Sure we will,” Bannon said flatly.

  The four of them rode steadily in the direction of the field where the Bloods had attacked them. They proceeded cautiously, the frontiersman in the lead, their rifles at the ready. Squirrels chittered at them or scampered higher into the trees. Birds regarded them with aloof indifference. Once a mule deer, a magnificent buck, burst from a thicket, snorting belligerently, and bounded away to the northwest.

  Nate became increasingly tense as they neared the vicinity of the attack. He began to doubt the wisdom of returning. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, probing the underbrush for an ambush. Before he knew it, they reached their destination.

  Halting near the tree line, Shakespeare peered at the field. He studied the stand of cottonwoods and the small lake beyond. “I believe they’re gone,” he declared.

  “Then let’s go,” Bannon said, starting forward.

  “Wait,” the frontiersman advised.

  “Why?”

  “I could be wrong. It’s not smart for all of us to ride into the open. Only one of us should go to the ravine.”

  “Don’t expect me to do it,” Hopper said.

  “I don’t,” Shakespeare said. “I’ll go.”

  Nate thought of the consequences should his friend ride into a trap, and shook his head. “No. I’m going.”

  “Why you?”

  “I’m the one with the charmed life, remember?” Nate replied, grinning, and moved from cover before the frontiersman could protest. He goaded the mare to a gallop, eager to be done with the task. He tried to recall the exact point where Yates had plunged over the rim and slanted toward it.

  Not a creature stirred anywhere in sight.

  The Bloods must have gone on their bloodthirsty way, Nate reasoned. There was no reason for them to stay. Still, he couldn’t suppress a certain degree of anxiety. Indians were remarkably clever at concealing themselves; the Bloods could be sighting on him at that very moment. He gazed to the northwest, where the other trapper had taken an arrow in the head. The body was gone.

  Nate slowed as he neared the ravine, constantly twisting in the saddle to scrutinize the cottonwoods and the forest.

  When he came to the crest he discovered he’d missed the exact spot by fifteen yards, but there wasn’t any need to move closer. From where he sat he could see the brown stallion, its tongue protruding, its eyes wide and lifeless, covered with blood. The carcass was in the same position as before.

  Yates, however, had moved.

  Or been moved.

  The skinny trapper lay on his back on a flat rock, his arms outstretched. He’d been stripped, mutilated, and scalped.

  Nate felt queasy at the grisly sight. Somehow, incredibly, the Bloods had climbed down the sheer wall and scaled it again with their trophy. He hoped Yates had been dead when they went to work. Jerking on the reins, Nate turned and made for the trees. His desire to be with Winona had intensified. At least back at the rendezvous he could enjoy some peace and quiet.

  He’d had enough of killing for one day.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A myriad of stars glimmered in the heavens and a stiff, cool breeze was blowing from the north when Nate and Shakespeare finally made their way toward their campsite after reporting to Jim Bridger.

  “He took the news about Yates and the other trapper hard,” Nate commented, arching his back to relieve stiffness at the base of his spine.

  “Gabe’s a good man, Nate. He’s not in the trapping business just for the money. He likes this sort of life, and he cares about the men,” Shakespeare said. “Tomorrow he’ll have the word spread around the rendezvous for everyone to stay away from the country where the war party is on the prowl.”

  Nate gazed at the south end of the lake, trying to pinpoint the fire Winona undoubtedly had going. They were still two hundred yards off, and it was difficult to ascertain precise distances in the dark. “I can’t wait to taste some of my wife’s cooking. She promised to have a hot meal all ready for us.”

  “She’s quite a cook,” Shakespeare said. “Almost in the same class as me.”

  Chuckling, Nate glanced at his companion. “I never met a man so fond of his own cooking as you are.”

  “It’s not the cooking I’m fond of,” Shakespeare said, correcting him. �
��It’s the eating.”

  They rode nearer to Bear Lake, passing several camps en route. The frontiersman hailed a few trappers he knew and exchanged bawdy pleasantries.

  Nate thought about his late uncle’s cabin high in the Rockies, far to the southeast, where Winona and he would begin their married life in earnest. He idly imagined the happy existence they would lead, and grinned in contemplation of the many, many hours they would spend in each other’s arms. He tried to envision what it would be like to have children, and decided rearing a child wouldn’t be any more difficult than having a horse or a dog to look after. They all required feeding, pampering, and maybe a scolding now and then. It wouldn’t be too hard.

  Would it?

  Shakespeare abruptly reined up.

  “What is it?” Nate asked, stopping.

  “There are no fires.”

  “Where?” Nate inquired, staring at the south shore of the lake.

  “There isn’t a fire at our campsite and there isn’t one at Crazy George’s.”

  “He could be off drinking,” Nate said, incipient anxiety gnawing at his mind. “But Winona should have one started by now.”

  “She doesn’t,” Shakespeare said, and goaded his white horse forward.

  Puzzled, Nate followed, his right hand on the Hawken. There must be a perfectly logical reason for the absence of a fire, he told himself. Perhaps Winona was still visiting her friends at the Shoshone encampment and she’d lost all track of time. Perhaps she’d started a fire earlier, then dozed off, and the fire had gone out. She had to be safe. Had to be.

  They came to Crazy George’s campsite and found his gear piled around the ring of rocks he’d used to enclose his fire. The trapper was nowhere to be found.

  Nate hurried northward, probing the night, hoping he would see Winona curled up on the ground. He drew close enough to distinguish their stack of supplies and the flat ground around the spot where they’d build their fire. She wasn’t there. “Winona?” he called out, halting. “Winona? Where are you?”

  “She’s not here,” Shakespeare stated, coming up on the mare’s left.

  “She could be taking a stroll along the lake,” Nate suggested halfheartedly.

  “With her horse?”

  Nate swung around and spied their hobbled pack animals thirty feet away, but the animal Winona regularly rode was gone. “Then she must be out for a ride,” he said, nodding in relief at the obvious explanation.

  “It’s not safe to go riding at night unless it’s absolutely necessary,” the frontiersman stated. “You know that and so does she.”

  “Then she’s with the Shoshones.”

  A new voice addressed them from the darkness. “No, she ain’t.”

  Nate whipped to the right, elevating the Hawken, and saw a figure approaching.

  “Don’t shoot! It’s just me! Crazy George!”

  “Where’s my wife?” Nate demanded as the lean man walked up to them.

  George took off his wool cap and hung his head. “I’ve got bad news for you, son.”

  Shakespeare leaned toward his longtime friend. “What happened?”

  “The Giant took her.”

  Nate was off his horse in a rush. He grabbed the front of George’s shirt. “What? When? Where did they go?”

  “Calm down!”

  “Where is she?” Nate snapped, overwhelmed by anger and apprehension, shaking the trapper. “Why’d they take her?”

  Crazy George tried to pry the younger man’s fingers from his buckskin. “Let go of me and I’ll tell you!”

  Startled, suddenly aware of what he was doing, Nate let go and stepped back. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t blame you none,” George said, smoothing his shirt. “I’d be the same way if those bastards took my woman.”

  “When did this happen?” Shakespeare inquired, dismounting.

  “About an hour ago. I was coming back from sharing a few with Old Lewis when I saw a bunch of fellows at your camp. It was too far for me to make out who they were, but something didn’t feel right so I came over. That’s when I found Cleroult and his bunch. They were forcing Winona to saddle her animal at gunpoint.”

  A chilling rage seized Nate and he clenched his rifle until his knuckles hurt. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll kill every one of them!”

  “That’s the spirit,” Crazy George exclaimed.

  “Did Cleroult see you?” Shakespeare queried.

  “Hell, I spoke to him.”

  “You saw him abducting Winona and he let you live?”

  “Yep. He wanted me to give the two of you a message,” George said. “I marched right up to him and demanded to know what he was doing. He told me that he was glad I stopped by. It saved him the trouble of leaving a note.”

  “What’s the message?” Nate asked, his tone hard and low.

  “The Giant says he’ll be waiting for both of you at Coyote Rock. He says you’d better show if you want to see your wife again.”

  “So he took Winona as part of his plan to get revenge on us,” Shakespeare said.

  “He sure did. He’s using her as bait to draw you into his trap.”

  Nate turned and took hold of the mare’s reins. “He’ll get his wish sooner than he expects.”

  “Hold up,” Shakespeare advised. “Don’t go rushing off half-cocked. We should tell Gabe and get some help. With your wife’s life in the balance, we can’t afford to take chances.”

  “And you can’t tell Gabe,” Crazy George interjected.

  “Why not?” the frontiersman responded.

  “He wants just the two of you. He’ll have men watching the trail, and if anyone else is with you, then Winona will be dead by the time you reach Coyote Rock.”

  “How many are with him?”

  “Four,” George said. “There’s Laclede, of course, and the one Nate hit with his rifle, Henri. There’s also a man by the name of Peterson.” He paused. “Oh, yeah. And that English boxer, Mulhare.”

  “That’s a nasty crowd,” Shakespeare remarked.

  “And Winona is in their clutches,” Nate declared. He mounted his horse and looked down at the frontiersman. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Do you need to ask?” Shakespeare rejoined, and climbed into the saddle. His white horse fidgeted a bit, then quieted down.

  “Don’t forget about me,” Crazy George told them. “Give me a minute to fetch my animal.”

  “We can’t take you. Cleroult only wants us, remember?” Nate reminded him. “If you should be spotted, Winona will be murdered. You stay put.”

  “But I can help. I’ll swing around Coyote Rock and sneak up on them. They’ll never know I’m there.”

  “No,” Nate stated.

  “You can use an extra gun.”

  “No,” Nate reiterated, “and if I catch you following us, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Shakespeare turned to the southeast. “It’ll take about three hours of hard riding to reach Coyote Rock. I’ve passed by it a half-dozen times or so, but never at night. The trail can be dangerous even in broad daylight. There aren’t many who would try it after dark.”

  “Isn’t there anything I can do?” Crazy George persisted.

  “You can let Gabe know what’s happening,” Shakespeare said.

  “But you heard—” George began.

  “I know,” the frontiersman said, cutting him off. “But I want you to wait an hour and a half, then inform Gabe.”

  “What good will that do? He won’t be able to reach Coyote Rock in time to help you.”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “No, but if he finds us dead he can track the Giant down and turn Cleroult over to the soldiers at Fort Leavenworth. You can be a witness.”

  “Me in a court of law?” Crazy George cackled. “I’d rather pluck my toenails out one by one than have anything to do with civilization.”

  “Do it as a favor to me.”


  George sighed and nodded. “For you I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me a favor.” He paused. “Though, to tell you the truth, I doubt it’ll get that far. Gabe will probably turn the Giant over to the Crows instead. They’d love to get their hands on him. I bet they could make twenty pouches from his skin, maybe more.”

  “I don’t care what Gabe does, just so Cleroult pays for his deeds.”

  “Enough talk,” Nate said impatiently. “Let’s get going.”

  “Stay right behind me,” Shakespeare advised, and started off. Nate dutifully followed.

  Crazy George watched them until they were lost in the night. He threw back his head and laughed in delight, then danced a frenzied jig, chortling all the while, his arms flapping and his legs skipping in time to an inner beat, lending him the aspect of an ungainly bird. After a minute he halted and gazed to the southeast. “I know something you don’t know!” he whispered conspiratorially, and launched into the jig again, repeating the same statement again and again. “I know something you don’t know! I know something you don’t know . . . .”

  ~*~

  The half-moon overhead provided scant illumination. Nate was hard pressed to stay directly behind the frontiersman once they entered the forest southeast of the rendezvous. Limbs constantly tore at his clothing, and once a branch gouged his left cheek and drew blood. He barely noticed. All he could think about was Winona in the clutches of those sons of bitches. The most exquisite rage he’d ever known fueled him with a fire for revenge.

  He thought about the callous audacity of the Giant in taking Winona under the very noses of the other trappers and Indians. Cleroult must have threatened to kill her, Nate reasoned, which explained why she hadn’t called out for help. He envisioned his hands on the Giant’s throat, squeezing until the flesh discolored, and he smiled in grim satisfaction.

  They wound through a series of hills. Around them the murky forest was alive with sounds: the distant howling of wolves, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the even rarer scream of a panther.

  Nate held the Hawken in his right hand, the barrel slanted across his saddle, and stared at the frontiersman’s back. “Tell me something.”

  “If I can.”

  “Why is this place we’re going to called Coyote Rock?”