Nate kept the Hawken pressed flush with his body. He saw the lead rider studying the ground, and entertained the hope of catching the man completely off guard. But as the Utes approached the gap, the foremost warrior paid less attention to the tracks he was following and more to the terrain ahead.
The second warrior looked over his shoulder, then halted and waited for the wounded man to catch up. They exchanged words, then rode on together.
An unexpected wave of dizziness assailed Nate, and he had to close his eyes to steady himself. The lack of sleep and food, plus the sustained strain of the flight, was taking its toll. Not now! he thought, and gazed at the Indians again.
When the lead rider reached the gap, he halted and intently scrutinized the hills and the trees for a few moments, as if he suspected something was wrong but couldn’t put his finger on it. Holding the fusee in his left hand, he goaded his animal into the opening.
A strange, troubling thought entered Nate’s mind: What if he was killed? Winona would never know what had happened to him. His body would lie where it fell, slowly rotting, or be consumed by scavengers. He envisioned his scalped form, partly eaten and stinking to high heaven, lying in the dirt, and felt bile rise in his throat. The image sparked a fleeting terror, and he hesitated.
Ten yards into the gap, the first Ute watched a pair of doves take flight from a cottonwood.
Nate almost panicked, almost whipped the rifle up and fired prematurely. Realizing the consequences of such rash action brought him to his senses. He had to be calm, to keep his wits about him at all times. Waiting was the key to success. Wait. Wait. Wait.
The lead Ute drew within twenty feet of the three pines. He shifted and looked at his companions.
In that instant when the warrior’s attention was diverted, Nate raised the Hawken to his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took careful aim.
Both the wounded Indian and the warrior with the bow spotted him and cried out in warning.
Swiveling, the lead rider instinctively started to bring the fusee to bear while simultaneously diving to the right.
Nate had to compensate, tracking the Ute’s body, and he rushed his shot, squeezing the trigger while the warrior was in midair. At the same instant the Ute cut loose with the fusee, and a burning sensation lanced through Nate’s right shoulder. He’d been hit! Stunned, he staggered backwards, then dropped to his knees behind another tree.
The first Ute was on the ground and scurrying on his hands and knees toward his friends, who had reined up and were taking cover.
Looking at his shoulder, Nate was horrified to see a tear in the buckskin and blood seeping out. He fought to get a grip on his nerves and resisted an impulse to flee. Yes, he’d been hit, but he was still alive, still able to fight. He gingerly probed the tear and discovered he’d sustained a flesh wound, nothing more. The ball wasn’t imbedded. Relieved, he looked toward the Utes in time to observe the lead rider crawl behind a waist-high bush.
There was no sign of the other two.
Nate pulled his head back, rested his forehead on the bole, and took stock. His carelessness had cost him dearly. Not only had he ruined the element of surprise, but apparently he’d missed. There were three Indians out there somewhere, eager to slit his throat.
Hold on a second.
Why were there only three?
Perplexed, Nate straightened and began reloading. There should be five Utes left out of the original nine. What could have happened to the other two? Were they en route to the Ute village for reinforcements? Or were they farther back along the trail?
A peculiar trilling noise arose to the southwest.
In the act of feeding powder down the barrel, Nate paused and scanned the gap. That sound had been like no bird he’d ever heard, and he wondered if the Utes were trying to circle past him. Working swiftly, he finished pouring the powder, wrapped a ball in a patch and wedged both into the barrel using his thumb, then shoved both all the way down with the detachable ramrod. After sliding the rod into its housing, he was ready.
All the wildlife in the immediate vicinity had fallen silent, and the breeze had died down.
Since the Utes knew where he was, Nate decided to head elsewhere. He flattened and made toward a pine ten feet away, and once its trunk sheltered him he rose cautiously to his knees and risked another look-see. Still no trace of the warriors. He looked toward the bush where the first man had vanished and detected a crimson smear on the grass. Maybe he hadn’t missed, after all.
A twig snapped to the right.
Pivoting, Nate spied one of his foes moving behind a boulder, proving they were trying to hem him in. He flattened again and retreated even farther, until he was lying at the base of a forked cottonwood and peering between the two trunks. Easing the Hawken out, he scoured the opening and the facing slopes.
Come on!
Show yourselves!
One of the Indians did, the man carrying the bow. He was creeping around the bottom of the boulder on the right, an arrow set to fly, his attention on the last pine.
This time Nate was determined not to miss. He sighted on the warrior’s head, and he was just about to fire when he heard onrushing footfalls to his left attended by a strident screech of savage fury.
Chapter Nineteen
In the instant Nate had to react, he squeezed off the shot and rolled to the right, not bothering to see whether he’d scored or not, flipping onto his back and reaching for his pistols.
The first Ute was almost on him. A ball had struck the warrior in the left side, gouging a deep furrow in his flesh, and he had discarded the fusee in favor of a tomahawk that he arced at Nate’s chest.
Desperately throwing himself to the left, Nate narrowly evaded the weapon. The tomahawk bit into the earth within inches of his ribs. He swept both flintlocks up and out, certain of slaying his adversary before the Ute could swing again, only the warrior pounced instead of swinging, batting Nate’s arms aside and landing on his chest.
Whooping lustily, the Ute raised the tomahawk for another blow.
There was no time to shoot. Nate elevated the right pistol and deftly deflected the tomahawk as it drove toward his face, then smashed the left flintlock into the man’s cheek, sending him sprawling. Surging to his feet, he tried to extend both pistols and fire, but the warrior, still on the ground, kicked Nate’s legs out from under him and he fell onto his back.
The tomahawk descended toward his face.
Nate rolled, and heard the thud as the sharpened edge hit the soil where his head had just been. He scrambled to his knees and twisted, and there was the warrior lunging at him, the tomahawk uplifted once more. In reflex he pointed the right pistol and sent a ball into his face.
Because of the angle, the shot took the Ute squarely in the throat and rocked him backwards. A red geyser gushed from his severed veins, but that didn’t stop him from trying to wield the tomahawk yet one more time. Gurgling, he coiled to spring.
Firing from the hip, Nate delivered a ball to the warrior’s forehead that slammed the man rearward. Discarding the right flintlock, he drew his knife, prepared to close if necessary.
The Ute wouldn’t attack any more trappers. He was limp, on his back, his eyes wide and lifeless.
For a second Nate stared at his vanquished enemy, amazed he had triumphed, and then he remembered there were other warriors eager to take his scalp. He dropped down, stuck the one pistol under his belt and retrieved the other, then crawled to his rifle.
An unnatural silence gripped the wilderness.
Nate glanced at the boulder, and nearly shouted for joy at spying the bowman dead at its base. Two down and one to go, and that one was wounded! He set about reloading all three guns, starting with the Hawken, and he was tugging on the ramrod to extract it when the heavy pounding of hooves sounded and a defiant cry rent the air. Startled, he glanced up.
The third Ute intended to go out fighting. Despite his wound—or was it because of it?—the warrior had remounted and now gallope
d forward, the lance upraised, grim determination etching his visage.
Letting the rifle drop, Nate clutched the knife and stood, using the right fork for cover, aware that a misstep would cost his life. Neither of the cottonwood forks were wide enough to conceal him entirely; he’d have to dodge at the very instant the lance was hurled.
The Ute’s eyes had a crazed aspect. He sneered and rode right up to the cottonwoods, apparently aware the rifle and pistols were expended.
Nate tensed, and saw the lance tip sweep at his head. He shifted, keeping the trunk between them, but he shifted too far and exposed himself on the other side. Again the lance stabbed out, and he barely skipped backwards out of range.
Laughing harshly, the warrior expertly maneuvered his horse so he could strike between the forks.
Nate darted to the right, racking his brain for a way to turn the tables. If he stayed where he was, eventually the Ute would connect. A knife was no match for a spear. There had to be a better way.
“Bastard!” the Ute barked, and struck.
So surprised was Nate at hearing English spoken by his foe, that he stood there for a fraction of a second in shock. The lance was within inches of his chest when he frantically twisted and glided to the right, the razor tip tearing through his buckskin shirt and slicing a furrow in his chest.
The warrior whooped.
And suddenly Nate knew what he had to do. All trace of fear was gone, supplanted by a firm resolve to win at all costs. He whirled and ran, but not at his top speed, and glanced over his right shoulder.
Predictably, the Ute took the bait, goading his mount around the cottonwood tree and giving chase.
“Fish-eater!” Nate yelled, his legs pumping, ignoring the intense stinging sensation in his chest, heading toward the boulder, deliberately holding back until the proper moment.
Elevating the lance, the warrior rapidly covered the ground. A grin betrayed his confidence. He thought he had the white man right where he wanted him.
Nate looked at the pair of trees, then at the Ute. It would be close. He ran faster, his heart thumping, his temples throbbing, caked with sweat. Just a few more feet! That was all he needed. The drumming hooves seemed to be almost on top of him when he passed under the buckskin rope, and he leaped to the right as he glanced at his enemy.
The Ute rode straight into the trap. Rabidly intent on throwing his lance into the hated white’s back, he concentrated on his running quarry to the exclusion of all else. The makeshift rope caught him a few inches below the neck and lifted him clean off his steed to topple hard onto his back, the lance flying from his hand.
The thought of taking a prisoner or sparing the warrior never entered Nate’s mind. He sprang, alighting on top of the Ute and plunging his knife into the man’s chest in the same motion. Once, twice, three times he buried the butcher knife to the hilt, and with each blow the warrior bucked and hissed.
Abruptly, the Ute gasped, thrashed feebly, and expired.
Taking a deep breath, Nate slowly rose, his eyes on the warrior’s. He’d won. He’d actually won. Oddly, he didn’t feel elated, didn’t feel pleased with himself. How could he when he’d just slain three men? Three more to add to the total. What was the total so far? He’d honestly forgotten.
Did it even matter?
He took several wobbly strides, the excitement making him giddy. At least Sitting Bear, Evening Star, and Laughing Eyes were safe. He’d repaid them for their kindness and generosity. All he had to do was see them safely to their village, and he could hasten to his cabin and the lovely woman he longed to embrace.
The war party was finished.
Or was it?
Nate recalled there were still two members of the band unaccounted for, and he adhered to his earlier reasoning that the others must be scouring the countryside elsewhere or on their way to their own village. Who cared where they were? It didn’t matter in the slightest.
Or did it?
A chilling thought instantly sobered him and prompted him to stare to the northwest in alarm. What if—and the idea was almost too horrible to contemplate—what if the remaining pair wasn’t somewhere along the back trail? What if they had taken a different route and were in front of him? What if they’d taken a shortcut to the Crow camp while the others had followed the tracks? That way, the Utes would have been assured of catching all of them.
Dear Lord!
Could it be?
A terrible premonition seized him, and he dashed to his guns. He fumbled with the powder and the balls as he reloaded the flintlocks and the rifle, and then he was sprinting to the stallion and vaulting into the saddle.
Please let him be wrong!
He jerked on the reins and brought the big black to a gallop, riding recklessly, the rifle in his left hand, forgetting all about his wounds, thinking only of the family he’d grown to care for, to love as if they were his very own.
The terrain flashed by. He lost all track of time, all track of the ground covered, all track of everything except his burning desire to reach the lodge as quickly as possible. When the stallion flagged, he urged it on, knowing the animal needed rest just as he did, knowing it had been through so much already, knowing it might die if he kept pushing, but push he did. The precious lives of the three Crows were more important than that of a horse, more important than his own. He’d vowed to protect them, and protect them he would, with his dying breath if need be.
Deer fled at his approach. Elk snorted and melted into the shadows. Buffalo regarded him warily.
Nate hardly noticed. His chest stung, his shoulder ached, his thighs were sore, his back stiff, but he cared not at all. All that counted was reaching the lodge.
The stallion was breathing heavily, its chest flecked with foam, its nostrils flaring, when they finally broke from the last stretch of forest and saw the field ahead. Nate’s own breath caught in his throat when he spied the strange horses near the teepee and spied two men moving about near the doorway. An uncontrollable rage gripped every fiber of his being, a fury surpassing all furies, and he saw the world through a reddish haze. “No!” he screamed, and swept onward.
Both Utes were on their mounts in a flash, and together they wheeled and rode to meet him. One carried a bow, the other a war club.
Nate never swerved, never deviated from his course as he bore down on the warriors. He saw the bowman notch a shaft, but paid no heed. The Ute bearing the war club raised it on high, but he ignored that. All that mattered was protecting the Crows. All that counted was making sure the Utes never killed another innocent person. Even when the bowman aimed and let the arrow fly, he kept on charging.
The shaft streaked through the air, a lethal blur that no man could evade.
Nate didn’t bother trying. His blood boiling, all he cared about was reaching the Utes. He glimpsed the shaft as it whizzed past his face, nicking his left cheek and drawing blood, and then he was almost upon them, still galloping all out. The Hawken molded to his right shoulder, he took a bead on the archer’s head, and fired. Without waiting to observe the result, he angled the stallion at the second warrior, ramming the big black into the Ute’s mount and bowling it over. The impact nearly unseated him, and then he saw the warrior struggling to rise, the man’s leg pinned under the downed animal. He tossed the rifle aside, drew his knife, and vaulted from the saddle.
The Ute looked up and tried to bring the war club into play.
Nate landed on the Indian’s horse as it tried to rise, sliding over its back to slam onto the warrior. His left hand grasped his foe’s wrist, preventing the war club from swinging, even as the Ute grabbed his knife hand. The horse reached its feet, leaving them free to grapple and roll from side to side as each man strived to prevail.
As he glared into Nate’s eyes, the Ute’s countenance was transformed by sheer hatred into a feral mask.
Nate’s fury lent strength to his arms. He ripped his hand loose and sank the knife into the warrior’s side, not once but again and again and again, st
abbing long after the Ute had ceased moving, long after his hand was coated with blood and red dots covered his shirt, neck, and chin. Only when a drop of blood sprayed onto his upper lip did he stop, suddenly aware of what he was doing, and lower his arm.
Feeling a singular numbness in his limbs, Nate rose awkwardly and shuffled a few feet from the Ute. He stared at the archer and found him dead in the high weeds. Belatedly, the shock hit, a reaction to the incensed combat. For a minute he stood still, striving to recover his senses. And then he remembered the Crows.
Evening Star!
Spinning, Nate ran toward the lodge, his gaze taking in the open flap and the lack of activity, as well as the absence of smoke. Please let them be all right, he prayed. Please let them be bound or staked out or hiding in the forest, but please let them be alive above all else! He slowed ten feet away. “Sitting Bear! Evening Star! Where are you?”
There was no answer.
Nate had to force his legs to take the necessary step to the lodge, and he was trembling when he sank to his knees and looked inside. A whine escaped his lips. He closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh God,” he said softly, and doubled over, his arms wrapped around his midriff. The tears, when they came, wouldn’t stop, and for the longest while the only sound that arose from the Crow camp were great, choking sobs.
Epilogue
The beautiful Indian woman with the flowing tresses and the troubled dark eyes were strolling along the south shore of a lake high in the Rockies, near a quaint cabin, when she happened to look to the west and spotted the lone rider. Instantly her hand flew to her mouth and her heart fluttered. She watched, scarcely believing her eyes, then broke into a run and shouted one of the few English words she knew. “Shakespeare! Shakespeare!”
From out of the cabin came a grizzled mountain man wearing buckskins and a brown beaver hat. He stared at her in bewilderment, then addressed her in the Shoshone tongue. “What is it, Winona? A grizzly?”
Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 28