Only The Strong

by David Thompson

  Emala started to say more, but Winona put a finger to her lips. “We can talk about this later. We must get away while we can.”

  “Lordy. I am touching human blood.”

  “Hurry. Please.”

  Winona stood guard. It would be easy to put a slug into Wesley, but the others would swarm her before she could reload, and in their fury maybe kill the Worths as well as her.

  Emala shook Samuel awake and cut him free. Then she crept to Randa, while Samuel moved to Chickory.

  They had a tense moment when Olan muttered in his sleep and rolled onto his side. Bromley was snoring like a buffalo, puffing his long mustache with each exhale. Kleist had his blanket pulled up half over his blond hair.

  Winona was surprised that Wesley hadn’t woke up. Of all of them, she considered him the most dangerous, and she didn’t take her eyes off him until Emala whispered her name and crooked a finger.

  The Worths were hurrying to the horses.

  Winona backed toward them. She didn’t realize she had stepped in the pool of blood that ringed Cranston’s body until her foot slipped out from under her and she nearly fell. It was amazing, how much blood the human body held. Going around, she dashed over.

  Chickory was about to climb on.

  “No!” Winona whispered. “We will lead them until we are far enough away that Wesley and his friends cannot hear us. And we will take the other horses with us.”

  Samuel showed his big teeth. “I like how you think. We’ll strand them afoot. It will take them weeks to get back to civilization.”

  “Months,” Winona amended.

  “Just so we hurry,” Emala urged, wringing her hands. “We can’t be shed of these devils fast enough to make me happy.”

  Randa said, “We should kill them in their sleep.”

  “Hush, child,” Emala scolded. “I won’t have no daughter of mine stickin’ folks like Mrs. King does.”

  “We could bash their heads in with rocks.”

  “Do you see any rocks handy?” Emala shook her head. “Let’s just scat while the scattin’ is good.”

  Winona was at her mare. She patted its neck and bent to cut the tether that linked the horses to one another.

  A metallic click warned her they had run out of time.

  Out of the darkness came Peleg Harrod, his rifle level. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nate King awoke to the dank scent of the earth in his nostrils. He remembered passing out. Fear filled him, fear he had been unconscious the whole night, but when he sat up he discovered, judging by the position of the Big Dipper, that it must be between three and four in the morning.

  Nate slowly stood. He half expected another attack of dizziness, but he appeared to be fine. His arm hurt where he had cauterized the cuts but not that badly. Nearby lay his spear.

  Then came a loud splash from the Platte River.

  Nate turned, dreading it would be a bear. He almost laughed when he spied the silhouette of a doe in the act of crossing. On the shore beyond others waited for her.

  “Enough wasting time,” Nate said to himself, and began to hike east. Worry for his wife eclipsed all else. He must reach her without any more delays.

  A growl from Nate’s stomach reminded him he had not eaten anything since breakfast the morning before.

  Passing out had done him some good. He wasn’t as bone-tired as before. He was able to hold a fast pace. If he could keep the pace up, if he could spot their campfire, if he could reach their camp before daylight…if, if, if.

  Nate thought of Harrod’s betrayal, and what the man had put him through, and his blood boiled. He would like to get his hands on Harrod and vent his wrath.

  The cool wind was a boon. He breathed deep and felt invigorated.

  Now and again he flexed the fingers of his wounded arm to keep them from becoming stiff.

  Minute by minute the night waned.

  Dawn was an hour off and Nate was on the verge of bursting with frustration when in the distance, a finger of orange appeared. He stopped and rubbed his eyes and looked again. The pinpoint was still there. Eagerly, he pumped his long legs. He was so intent on the orange spot, he was oblivious to the woods around him until he came around a bend and the trail was blocked by a large bulk that snorted and reared from all fours onto its hind legs.

  Nate stopped dead. It was another black bear. They weren’t as fierce as grizzlies, but twice in his life he had nearly been killed by black bears and had learned to never, ever take them lightly. This one sniffed and cocked its head. A growl rumbled from its barrel chest.

  Nate broke out in a sweat. This was the last thing he needed. He had the spear, but against a bear it was next to useless. He stayed still, his fate in the paws of the most unpredictable creature on God’s green earth.

  The bear took a lumbering step and did more sniffing.

  Nate resisted an urge to run. Running from a bear sometimes incited them into attacking. Instead he looked the bear in the eyes and slowly raised his arms to make himself appear bigger.

  The black bear’s thin lips curled.

  Nate firmed his hold on the spear. He wouldn’t go down without a struggle. The bear’s throat was its most vulnerable spot. A thrust to the jugular might prove fatal. If he could pierce the jugular, if he could avoid the enraged bear until it dropped …if, if, again.

  There were too many if’s in life.

  The black bear lumbered closer. He saw saliva on the bear’s teeth. He saw snot drip from its nose.

  Just when Nate thought it would attack, the bear came down on all fours, and turned. A grunt and it was gone, melting into the vegetation with ghostly stealth.

  Bears were crafty. Sometimes they lumbered off, only to circle around and come at their prey from another direction. Nate didn’t linger. Holding his wounded arm to his side, he ran until his chest throbbed and his lungs were strained.

  Slowing to a walk, Nate glanced back. The bear hadn’t come after him. He gave silent thanks and moved on. The spot of orange was bigger. He was getting close.

  Over and over in his head he repeated the same vow: Winona is there. I must reach her. I must save her. It became a chant, a litany.

  Nate couldn’t bear the idea of losing her. They had been together for de cades. He didn’t talk about it much because men didn’t talk about such things, but she was the heart of his life.

  He had a friend who believed that women were for cooking and sewing and cleaning, and for keeping men warm under the sheets. His friend’s idea of love was a shallow stream watered by the runoff of need and not the deeper love that came from two hearts entwined.

  Nate caught himself and shook his head in annoyance. Here he was thinking about love when he should be concentrating on one thing and one thing only. He raised his gaze to the orange. A quarter of a mile, he figured. And not much night left.

  Nate walked faster. The slave hunters were bound to be up at the crack of dawn, and once awake, they would be that much harder to take by surprise.

  “I’m coming, Winona.”

  The sound of his voice startled him. Maybe being alone in all that vastness had gotten to him.

  When he was a couple hundred feet out, Nate slowed. He didn’t want to; he had to. The crack of a twig could spoil everything. He moved with the care and patience of the Apaches he had tangled with years ago on a visit to Santa Fe.

  The fire had burned low, which worked in his favor. The less light, the less likely they were to spot him before he was ready to be spotted.

  At a hundred feet, Nate eased onto his belly and crawled. He wasn’t taking any chances. Not with Winona’s life at stake. And the lives of the Worths, of course.

  Nate held the spear at his side and was careful it didn’t snag. Never had he missed his rifle and pistols and bowie as much as he did right then. With guns he would have stood a good chance. Without them…He frowned and continued crawling.

  Nate was a realist. He might come out on top
. He might not. He thought of his son, Zach, and Zach’s delightful spouse, Louisa. He thought of his best friend and mentor, Shakespeare McNair, and Shake-seare’s Flathead wife, Blue Water Woman. He thought of happy times and happy memories, and made his peace. If it was to be, it was to be. When all was said and thought, a man, any man, or a woman, any woman, had no more control over their destinies than the guiding hand of the Almighty allowed.

  Now Nate was close enough to hear the crackling of the flames. He was close enough to see that the ground around the fire was empty of sleeping forms. No one was there. Not the slave hunters. Not Winona. Not the Worths. Nor were there any horses.

  They had gone, and left the fire burning.

  Anger brought Nate to his feet. He charged into the clearing, his chest heavy with worry. Without a mount he had no hope of overtaking them. Fighting off despair, he shuffled to the fire. Near it was a dry pool of blood. He dropped the spear, sank to his knees, and said the name that meant more to him than anything. “Winona.”

  “She’s right here, Injun lover.”

  Nate felt like the world’s biggest fool. “You were waiting for me.”

  Six men ringed him with leveled rifles. One of the six was Peleg Harrod. “We were waiting for you, hoss. Let me introduce these other gents.” He did so, ending with, “And this is the famous Grizzly Killer. Word has it he’s killed more silver tips than any man alive.”

  “Want me to kill him, Wesley?” Trumbo asked. “A twitch of my finger and I’ll splatter his brains.”

  The hawk-faced slave hunter cradled his Kentucky and came to the other side of the fire. “This was my doing. I don’t like loose ends. I knew if I didn’t finish it, you would track me down and hold me to account.”

  “You figured right.” Nate peered into the dark. He was weary and worn and drained, and longed for one thing. “Where are they? What have you done with them?”

  “Not a thing to the darkies. They’re worth money. As for your squaw…” Wesley gestured at the dry blood. “There were seven of us, but she killed the boy standing watch. She shouldn’t have done that. I was willing to do her quick, but now it won’t be.” He gestured again, at the encircling dark. “Fetch them. And don’t forget the horses.”

  Harrod stayed where he was. “I’m right sorry about this, but money is money and he’s paying me well.”

  “Judas was paid well, too.”

  Harrod jerked his head as if he had been slapped. “Hey now. I didn’t kill you like I was supposed to. That should count for something.”

  Wesley faced the old frontiersman. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Peleg. We had an agreement, remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you broke it.”

  “You have him, don’t you?”

  “That’s not the point. You were to lead him back here into an ambush and we would kill him. With him dead, the rest would be easy to catch.”

  “It worked out, didn’t it? The Worths and his woman rode right into your hands.”

  “It worked out, yes,” Wesley said. “It worked out in spite of you not doing as I wanted.”

  Harrod mustered a grin. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “I never get mad, Peleg. I never raise my voice. I never threaten. You should know that by now. I don’t forgive, either. You should know that, too.” Wesley’s right hand rose, holding a flintlock. He thumbed back the hammer.

  “Wait!” Harrod bleated.

  “What for?”

  “You can’t kill me in cold blood.”

  “Why not? You’ve served your purpose.”

  “But you need me, remember. You need my experience.”

  “I needed you to help cross the prairie. But now we’re heading back. I can manage right fine without you.”

  “You bastard. You just want to get out of paying me the rest of the money you owe me.”

  The pistol boomed and the back of the frontiersman’s head exploded. Peleg Harrod’s mouth fell open and his features went slack, and like so much mud he oozed into a heap and lay quivering.

  Nate started to rise, but Wesley centered the Kentucky on him.

  “I’d think twice, mountain man. But if you’re in a hurry to die, you are welcome to try.”

  The others came running and stopped short at the sight of Harrod.

  Olan laughed and slapped his thigh. “I never did like that old fart. Him and his airs about females.”

  “Fetch them,” Wesley commanded, and when they hustled off, he turned to Nate. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “Want me to turn my back to you to make it easy?”

  “What I want is to know why,” Wesley said.

  “Why what?” Nate was watching for Winona. At that moment nothing else in the whole world mattered.

  “Why did you help the blacks? What are they to you that you went to all this trouble?”

  “We like them.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else should there be?”

  “I lost my best friend back in Missouri and had to trail you halfway across the plains, and all because you took a shine to a bunch of wooly heads?”

  “They’re our friends.”

  “Hell. You haven’t known them that long. Yet you and your woman gambled your lives to save theirs.” Wesley shook his head. “I’ll never understand people like you.”

  “People who care for other people?”

  “No. Whites who don’t give a damn about their own color. You took a red wife and you made friends with these blacks. Don’t you have any pride? Don’t you have any dignity?”

  “My wife could be any color under the sun and I would still be proud to be her husband.” Nate was angered by the insult, and he fed on that anger for renewed vigor. “She’s the finest woman I ever met.”

  “She’s still a red squaw.”

  Nate balled his big fists and would have struck him if not for the unwavering muzzle of the Kentucky rifle.

  “I suppose you don’t believe in slavery, either?”

  “Need you even ask?”

  Wesley let out a long sigh. “One of those. You’re from north of the Mason-Dixon, aren’t you?”

  “I was born and raised in New York.”

  “That explains it. You damn Yankees with your soft hearts. You cry and moan about how awful it is that we in the South lord it over blacks, and then you go and try to lord it over us by demanding we do as you want whether we want to or not, and set all the blacks free. You’re a bunch of hypocrites.”

  “Making slaves of people is wrong.”

  “Slavery has been around since Bible times. It’s nothing new.”

  Nate had more to say but just then the Worths were shoved and prodded into the firelight. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Samuel’s ankles had been bound, as well, and the only way he could move was to hop like a rabbit.

  Emala saw Nate, and sobbed.

  “Where’s Winona?”

  “Your bitch is coming,” Trumbo said.

  Nate churned with fear. He scarcely breathed. When three figures came out of the dark he started to rise, but Wesley took a half step.

  “Stay right where you are, mountain man.”

  Olan was on one side of Winona, Bromley on the other. She was as limp as a wet cloth, her long black hair hanging over her face.

  “Here’s your squaw,” Olan said, and laughed.

  They hurled Winona roughly to the ground and she rolled onto her back and was still.

  Her hair fell from her face.

  Nate looked, and thought he would scream.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They’d beaten her. They beat her about the face and head and neck, beat her so bad that every inch of skin was a bruise or a welt or a bump. Dry blood caked her chin and the corners of her mouth, and red ribbons were under her nose. They must have mashed her face in the dirt after they beat her because her wounds were smeared with it, and dirt was in her hair and speckled the top of her dress.

&
nbsp; Deep within Nate King something snapped. He stared down at the woman he loved more than he loved anything or anyone, and it was as if an invisible hand reached into his chest, wrapped around his heart, and squeezed. A red-hot blaze of fury coursed through his veins and his temples throbbed to the beat of pure rage. He had thought he would scream, and now he did. But not a scream of anguish or despair. He screamed a scream of fury. He screamed in molten hate. He screamed as a man screams when all he is or was or ever will be lay hurt before his eyes. He screamed a scream ripped from the depths of his being.

  Nate was up off his knees in a blur. The Kentucky boomed but he sidestepped and the slug missed. He drove his fist into Wesley’s face with all the might of his iron muscles. Flesh pulped and teeth crunched, and Wesley went down, spitting blood. Still a blur, Nate whipped a backhand that caught Olan across the jaw and sent him tumbling. A pistol cracked, Bromley this time, but again the shot missed. Nate kicked him in the groin, and it was as if a hog squealed at its own slaughter.

  Then Trumbo pounced, closing from behind and wrapping his huge arms around Nate’s. “I’ve got him!”

  Nate rammed his head back and cartilage gave way with a wet splat. Trumbo grunted, and his grip slackened. With a powerful heave, Nate broke free and whirled. Trumbo reached for him, but Nate launched an uppercut that started at his knee and lifted Trumbo onto his heels and sent him crashing to the earth.

  That left the blond man, the one called Kleist. He had wisely stayed back and now he took aim with a pistol, thinking he had the time.

  Nate bent and grabbed the unlit end of a burning brand from the fire and threw it at Kleist’s face. Kleist did what anyone would do—he ducked. It gave Nate the second he needed to take a long bound and drive his fist deep into the blond man’s gut.

  All the men were down, some not moving, some thrashing and cursing and spitting.

  Nate had eyes only for Winona. He dashed to her side and gently lifted her. The sight of her battered, bloodied face so close to his caused another cry to be torn from his innermost being, and then he was racing for the trees with her clutched protectively to his broad chest.

  “Stop him, damn it!” Wesley bellowed. “Shoot him, someone!”