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

by Robbins, David

  “I have an idea,” Nate signed as they were crossing the hill side by side. “Why not bring your family to my cabin and spend time with us? My wife will be delighted, and I know your wife would not mind.”

  “True. Women are more social than men. But I must think on it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if we visit you, my quest to restore my standing in my tribe will be delayed.”

  “What harm can a few days do? Besides, I have another friend staying with me whom you might like to meet.”

  “What is the name of this friend?”

  Nate grinned. “Carcajou.”

  The warrior pondered the news. “Yes, I would like to see Carcajou again. Perhaps we will come with you. But we have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “We travel very slowly without horses to pull our lodge. My sons and I must do the hauling while Evening Star carries our daughter and parfleches. You would be delayed getting back.”

  Nate stared straight ahead, debating whether to offer his animals to transport the lodge. He abruptly halted when he spotted figures moving in the trees below. There were men on horseback riding toward the hill. He grabbed the Crow and yanked him flat.

  “What is it?” Sitting Bear signed.

  Nate simply pointed. He recognized the riders as two Indians. The foremost warrior appeared to be inordinately interested in the ground. A tracker, Nate realized, and the man was smack dab on their trail.

  “Utes,” Sitting Bear said.

  “Two of those from last night,” Nate speculated. What could have happened to the third? Had his ball eventually killed the man?

  “They have not seen us yet.”

  Twisting, Nate scoured the slope for a place to take cover. There were a few trees off to the left, and a low cluster of brush to the right. Neither was ideal, but under the circumstances there was no alternative. He nudged the Crow and indicated the three trees. “We should make our stand there.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Nate turned, placed the rifle in the crooks of his elbows, and crawled rapidly southward. He glanced repeatedly at the forest, marking the progress of the Utes. The pair rode out of the woods at the same time he reached the trees, whose trunks were no thicker than his thigh and afforded scant protection, and rose to his knees.

  Sitting Bear crouched behind the next tree and drew an arrow from his quiver as he unslung his bow.

  Advancing at a surprisingly leisurely rate, the Utes ascended the hill. The one at the rear was talking animatedly.

  “They believe we are hours in front of them,” Sitting Bear related. “Once the tracker sees our return tracks, they will know we are here.”

  Nate estimated the duo would pass within twenty yards of their position, and started to state as much when he remembered there was no sign motion for the word “yard.” He modified his statement. “They will come within twenty paces of us. I will take the first man if you will slay the second.”

  “When you fire, I will.”

  Easing onto his stomach, Nate braced the barrel on the bole and waited. The lead Ute carried a lance, while the second warrior held a bow. Since Indian men could hurl a spear or shoot an arrow with uncanny speed and accuracy, he took slight comfort from the edge his rifle gave him. If he missed, there wouldn’t be an opportunity to reload it; the flintlocks would be his last resort.

  Onward came the warriors, the lead rider leaning over his animal’s neck to better see the soil.

  Nate took a bead on the first Ute’s chest, his pulse quickening. He glanced at the slope, estimating the point where their return tracks had ended when they crawled to the trees, and decided to fire when the warriors were at least fifteen feet from the spot.

  The second Ute fell silent and idly surveyed the countryside. He stared at the mountain to the west, the mountain to the northwest, and then at the trees.

  Nate’s breath caught in his throat. The Utes were forty yards off, too far to guarantee both would be killed at the outset of the impending fight. They must come closer! He remained still, well aware of the keen eyesight Indians possessed.

  Displaying no alarm, the Ute strayed his gaze farther south.

  Relieved, Nate grinned and adjusted the position of his left elbow.

  The second Ute’s head unexpectedly snapped toward the trees again and he reined up, calling out to the first man, who also stopped.

  Dread welled within Nate like a bitter bile, and he cocked the Hawken in anticipation of what would happen next. Nor was he disappointed.

  Gesturing excitedly, the second Ute abruptly whooped, hefted his bow, and charged. A second afterward the lead rider followed suit.

  Casting caution to the wind, Nate stood and aimed at the first man. He delayed firing for several seconds, wanting to be sure, then squeezed the trigger.

  Simultaneous with the cracking discharge the foremost Ute performed a remarkable maneuver. He swung down on the off side of his animal, using his left forearm and his left foot to retain his hold on the horse, minimizing the target he presented.

  Nate knew the ploy firsthand, knew it would take an exceptional shot to dislodge the Indian from his perch. He lowered the rifle and drew both pistols.

  Thirty yards out the second Ute was in the act of drawing his bowstring to his cheek when Sitting Bear’s arrow took him high on the left side of his chest. He jerked backwards and tumbled from his mount, landing on his side, then pushed erect with the shaft jutting from his torso.

  Sitting Bear stepped into the open, another arrow nocked, intent on making his next shaft the final one. He totally ignored the first Ute.

  Since the tree afforded some protection, Nate stayed where he was. He lifted both flintlocks, trying for a clear shot at the leader, unwilling to shoot unless he was certain of scoring.

  The tracker was only twenty yards away, his horse bearing down on the trees at full gallop, his foot and forearm the only parts of him in view.

  Knowing he shouldn’t let the Indian get any closer, Nate dashed from his marginal cover, racing to the west, trying for a better angle. He had managed four strides when the Ute suddenly straightened and hurled the lance. Instinctively, he ducked, thinking the warrior had thrown the weapon at him. But he was wrong.

  Standing tall, exposed and unsuspecting, Sitting Bear let his arrow flash forward. With his gaze riveted on the wounded man, he never saw the slim spear that arced through the air and struck him just above the right hip. The impact spun him around. He dropped his bow and fell to his knees, his face distorted in agony, clutching at the lance.

  The fury that dominated Nate’s mind caused him to take a reckless gamble. Already the lead rider was swinging from sight again, and only his head and shoulders were above the horse. Nate rashly pointed both pistols and fired them together.

  Twin balls bored into the Ute’s forehead, and he uttered a short scream as his arms flung outward and he toppled to the hard earth.

  Nate pivoted, concerned about the second enemy, but Sitting Bear’s arrow had pierced the center of the man’s chest and laid him out flat. Sitting Bear! He ran to his friend, who was doubled over and trembling, and squatted next to him.

  The Crow looked up, grimacing, beads of sweat on his brow. He hissed a few words in his language and nodded at the Utes.

  Nate placed the flintlocks down and examined the wound. The lance had transfixed Sitting Bear, with about half its length sticking out his back. Blood flowed copiously, covering his thigh and leg in red.

  Gasping with the effort, the warrior moved his hands to say two words. “Pull it.”

  Nodding, Nate licked his lips and moved around in front of the warrior. He knelt, seized the bloody spear in both hands, and looked into Sitting Bear’s eyes. ‘This will hurt like hell,” he stated.

  Although he hadn’t understood a word, Sitting Bear bobbed his chin and gulped.

  Nate tensed his arms and legs, then tugged on the lance with all of his strength. To his amazement, the shaft came out easily,
so easily he lost his balance and fell onto his buttocks. He flung the spear to the ground, then wiped his blood-soaked hands on the grass.

  Sitting Bear was in terrible torment. He grunted, closed his eyes, and bent in half.

  Drawing his knife, Nate stood and ran to the Ute he’d shot. The man wore leggings, and Nate swiftly cut strips of buckskin to use for bandages. Holding them in his left hand, he raced back to his friend and frantically attempted to stop Sitting Bear’s life fluid from gushing forth. All his efforts were unavailing. The buckskin strips became drenched. Nate stood, about to go cut more, when the drumming of hooves arose to his rear. Whirling, he was stunned to discover another Ute bearing down on them—a Ute armed with a fusee.

  Chapter Nine

  Fifty feet separated Nate from the onrushing Indian. All three of his firearms were empty, and the knife he held was no match for the warrior’s gun.

  Fusees were smooth-bored flintlocks the Indians received in trade with the fur companies, particularly the Hudson’s Bay firm. The barrels were invariably shortened to accommodate ease of handling on horseback. All fusees were notoriously inferior to the rifles of the trappers and mountain men, both in range and accuracy. At under twenty-five yards, though, they were formidable weapons.

  Nate was surprised the Indian hadn’t fired already. He saw the man weave as if drunk, and noticed a crimson stain on the warrior’s buckskin shirt. In a flash of insight he perceived it must be the one he’d shot outside the lodge.

  The Ute slowed and tried to level the fusee.

  Desperately casting about for anything he could employ to defend himself, Nate saw Sitting Bear’s bow lying in the grass. He dropped the knife and scooped it up, then slid an arrow from the Crow’s quiver. A hasty glance showed him the Ute had stopped and was taking aim.

  During his early teens Nate had taken an interest in archery and learned the basics. He’d spent many an idle hour practicing, and learned the proper way to draw the string and sight along an arrow. After the first several months he’d been consistently able to score a hit within two or three inches of the center of the target.

  Now he notched a slender shaft constructed from ash to a bowstring composed of buffalo sinews, elevated the bow, and pulled. To his consternation, the string barely moved. He looked at his adversary and saw the Ute slumped forward, the fusee pointed at the grass. Again he endeavored to pull the string back, straining his muscles to their utmost, and succeeded in drawing the sinews to his chin.

  The Ute was straightening.

  Nate’s left arm trembled as he tried to hold the bow steady. He attempted to aim, but the tip of the shaft kept moving up and down.

  Scowling in sheer hatred, the Ute lifted the fusee to his shoulder once more.

  A sensation of impending doom spurred Nate to make a last, herculean effort. He brought the string all the way to his ear, held his breath for a second, and let the arrow fly.

  A blurred bolt of wooden lightning leaped from the bow to the Ute. The shaft struck the Indian below his left ribs and twisted him around. He grabbed the arrow, teetered precariously, and pitched over.

  Nate grasped another arrow and raced toward the warrior. He had to be sure before he could attend to Sitting Bear. As much as he disliked finishing off a helpless foe, he had no choice.

  Exhibiting remarkable endurance, the Ute rose to his knees. He’d dropped the fusee as he fell, and it lay a yard to his right. With the shaft protruding from his body, he moved slowly toward the gun.

  Despite himself, Nate admired the tenacity of the Indian. He nocked the second arrow as he ran, and when he came within eight feet of the Ute he halted and whipped the bow up.

  Apparently hearing the footsteps, the warrior glanced at the white man. He stared at the razor point fixed on his chest and uttered a defiant challenge in his own language, shaking his left fist in anger.

  Nate let the bow do his talking. This time the shaft pierced the Ute high on the right side of the chest, and the man fell without voicing another sound. Satisfied by his victory, but disturbed by the deed, Nate returned to Sitting Bear.

  The Crow was almost unconscious. His eyelids fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, and he breathed in loud, ragged gulps. Blood continued to gush from the wound.

  In a frenzy of anxiety, Nate racked his brain for something he could do. If the bleeding didn’t cease soon, Sitting Bear would assuredly die. Since bandages hadn’t worked, he must try something else. But what?

  Inspiration hit him when his eyes strayed to the trees. He tossed the bow to the earth, retrieved his knife, and sprinted to the source of the Crow’s salvation. Working furiously, he hacked off and collected an armful of thin limbs, raced to Sitting Bear’s side, and proceeded to make a fire. He tore out handfuls of dry grass to use as tinder, then turned to the blaze itself. Since the flint he normally used was in a pack back at the lodge, he resorted to a trick he’d seen performed by a trapper at the rendezvous. He quickly reloaded one of the pistols and held the gun at ground level, next to the limbs.

  Nate cocked the flintlock, then packed kindling all around it. He hesitated before squeezing the trigger, afraid the tactic wouldn’t work. A groan from Sitting Bear reminded him of the necessity, and he fired into the ground. Thankfully, stray sparks ignited the dry grass on the first shot. Elated, he bent down and nursed the initial pinpoints of flame by blowing lightly on the tinder.

  It took several minutes of sustained effort, but Nate succeeded in getting the fire going. He stuck the pistol under his belt.

  Sitting Bear was on his right side, unconscious, his leggings drenched.

  Nate waited until the fire crackled before selecting a branch that would suit his purpose. He gripped the outer end and slowly turned it over and over, letting the flames char the opposite tip. Not until it glowed bright red did he lift the branch and turn to his companion. He rolled the Crow over, exposed the hole, and began cauterizing the wound, inserting the scorching tip as far as it would go.

  The grisly operation seemed to take forever. Nate repeatedly reheated the tip. Each time the branch touched Sitting Bear’s flesh, there would be a loud sizzling and a pungent smell. He came close to gagging twice. Eventually the bleeding stopped. By then the rims of the entry and exit holes had been burnt a crisp black.

  There was no rest for the weary. Nate gathered all of his weapons, reloaded his guns, and walked toward the horse belonging to the third Ute. The animal, a fine black stallion, had moved less than forty feet from the spot where its rider had been slain. It nibbled at the grass, and glanced up once as Nate approached. He moved carefully so as not to spook the steed.

  True to Indian custom, the horse had a war bridle attached to its lower jaw with a lark’s-head knot. The rope reins dangled from its neck.

  Nate slowed to a snail’s pace when a yard from the stallion. “Be a good boy,” he said softly. “Don’t run off.”

  The horse paid him no attention.

  Tentatively extending his right hand, Nate succeeded in grasping the reins. He patted the animal’s neck to reassure it, then swung up onto the bare back. Happily, the stallion didn’t resist. “Just don’t buck me off,” he said, and goaded the steed forward, finding the horse easy to control. Swinging in a loop, he rode back to his friend.

  One of the other Ute mounts was sixty feet to the north. The last animal had strayed to the west a good forty yards.

  Nate stared at Sitting Bear, then at the horses. He thought about the sacrifice the man had made to atone for the Arapaho raid and came to a decision. Wheeling the stallion, he rounded up the others.

  Only then did Nate try to revive the Crow, but without water his efforts were unavailing. He slung the bow over his left arm, then carefully lifted Sitting Bear onto the horse and held him up while climbing on behind him. Gripping the warrior around the waist, Nate headed out. He wished he could carry the weapons belonging to the dead Utes, but his arms were full as it was.

  So began the long ride to the lodge. Nate was comp
elled to travel slowly for fear of jarring Sitting Bear and starting the hole bleeding again. He constantly scoured the forest for additional enemies. Fortunately, none appeared.

  The golden orb dominating the heavens climbed steadily higher. Low gray clouds filtered in from the west, then bigger and darker ones. The breeze intensified, becoming a brisk wind.

  Nate looked over his shoulder and frowned at the sight of the blackened horizon. Roiling harbingers of Nature’s elemental fury were bearing down on the woodland, and he estimated they would overtake them before he covered another mile.

  As was often the case at the higher elevations in the Rocky Mountains, the storm raged across the landscape with astounding rapidity. The trappers and the Indians often remarked about the incredibly swift changes that occurred. One minute the sky could be sunny and clear; the next minute the atmosphere could be in intense turmoil. Many a hunter had found himself taken unawares by a freak hailstorm or snow shower in the middle of the summer, to say nothing of the fierce thunderstorms that shook the very earth and gave the impression the world was coming to an end.

  Nate saw numerous lightning flashes, and heard the peal of distant thunder. He urged the stallion as fast as he dared, and searched for shelter. The tops of the trees were already bending, and the moist smell of rain was in the abruptly humid air. He disliked being in the midst of so many towering giants, each one capable of attracting a bolt from above. Scattered drops began to fall, and just when he resolved himself to taking shelter at the base of a trunk, he spied the cliff.

  To the north, barely visible above the forest, was a high outcropping of rock. It ran from east to west and was crowned with pine trees.

  Thankful to find any sanctuary at all, Nate made for the cliff. His arms were feeling the effects of the sustained strain of holding Sitting Bear on the stallion while leading the spare animals, and he looked forward to taking a break.

  The forest went almost to the cliff wall. Nate paused at the edge of a narrow strip of grass bordering the base to pick where he would make his stand. More and more rain descended every second, and he blinked as drops splattered on his brow.