“How soon before they attack?” George asked. “There’s no way of telling,” Nate replied. “But you’ll know it when they do.”
“How?”
As if in response, from all points of the compass erupted a savage chorus of bloodcurdling cries.
Chapter Eighteen
“Here they come!” Allen cried.
“You cover George while he takes the horses into the trees!” Shakespeare directed the trapper. “Nate, you head north and I’ll go south. Keep moving and make every shot count.” With that, he whirled and ran southward.
Nate streaked toward the northeast corner as fast as his legs would carry him. He saw the rows of onrushing Blackfeet before he stopped behind a tree and whipped the Hawken to his shoulder. A strapping warrior waving a huge war club proved a tempting target, and he sent a ball into the man’s chest. In a smooth motion he drew his right flintlock, extended it, and fired at a young Blackfoot to the east. The warrior fell, venting a gurgling shriek.
The rest instantly sought cover, diving into the grass.
Crouching, Nate swiftly reloaded, his eyes constantly darting to the north and east. To the south Shakespeare’s Hawken boomed, and seconds later Allen’s Kentucky thundered close by the creek. Despite the overwhelming odds, they stood a slim chance if they could keep the Blackfeet at bay. Once the warriors got into the pines, the contest would soon be over.
Another factor worked in their favor. Successful war parties were judged not only by how much booty the participating warriors brought back to their village, but by how few men were lost along the way. If a band stole a hundred horses from another tribe, but lost one man in the bargain, that raid was rated a failure and the warrior responsible for leading it was judged to have bad medicine. But if a band stole only ten horses yet didn’t lose a single life, that raid was considered a great triumph.
Nate had downed two of the Blackfeet, and they would be averse to losing more. They would try every trick they knew, but they wouldn’t recklessly expose themselves again unless certain of slaying him when they did.
Silence prevailed on all sides. He wondered how Shakespeare and Allen had fared. Twisting to scan the stand, he heard a buzzing noise, and threw himself to the right as an arrow streaked past his head and thudded into a fir. He lay on his stomach, his heart drumming, and tried to spot the archer. The high grass taunted him with its seeming emptiness.
Nate crawled backwards until he was next to the wide bole of a tall pine, then rose to his knees. A rifle blasted to the east and a ball smacked into the tree within inches of his face, showering wood slivers on his cheeks and forehead. Dropping flat, he shifted in the hope of spying the warrior, but all he saw was grass.
So that was their game! The Blackfeet were going to lie out there and pick him and his companions off at their convenience. Or worse yet, the Blackfeet would pour arrows and lead into the stand in order to slay the horses, sealing the trap.
A bunch of weeds twenty yards to the north fluttered and a painted face poked out. Nate quickly pointed the Hawken, cocked the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. The Blackfoot’s head jerked as if kicked by an invisible foot; then the man slumped from sight.
In retaliation three arrows penetrated the stand, all missing by a wide margin.
Nate snaked to the left, convinced only a few of them knew his approximate position. The rest were shooting at random. He sat up behind a fir and hastily reloaded the rifle. As he was sliding the ramrod home, the brush to his rear rustled and George Burke, armed with a flintlock and a knife, stepped from cover. “Get down!” Nate hissed.
George halted, then obeyed, and as he did an arrow flashed through the very space his chest had occupied a second before.
“Stay low!” Nate instructed him.
Nodding, George crawled to the tree. “Shakespeare sent me,” he whispered. “He wants to see you. I’ll keep watch here.”
“Has anyone been hit?”
“Not yet. An Indian almost got me but Allen shot him dead,” George said, and smiled. “The really good news is that my brother has revived.”
“So soon?”
“The travois bumped into a tree or two when I was getting the horses under cover and all the bouncing around woke him up.”
“I’ll go see what Shakespeare wants,” Nate said. He hesitated, then held out the Hawken. “Take this until I get back. But don’t shoot unless you’re sure you can score.”
“Thanks. I left mine back at the village.”
Greenhorns! Nate reflected sourly as he angled through the trees until he came on a small clear space where the horses had been bunched. Shakespeare stood near the travois. “Where’s Allen?” Nate inquired.
“On the south side,” the mountain man said.
Reverend Burke’s eyes were open but they were dull and his eyelids drooped. “Brother King,” he said weakly, the words slurred. “How bad off are we? McNair won’t tell me.”
“Bad enough,” Nate said.
“It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been so pigheaded—”
“You should rest, Reverend,” Nate told him. “You’ll need all your strength when we make our escape.”
Shakespeare squinted up at the sun. “I reckon we have six hours of daylight left, maybe a little more. Since Blackfeet don’t like to fight at night, they’ll spend all afternoon trying to kill us one by one, then rush those of us who are left right before dark.”
“We’ll mount up and be ready to ride when the sun touches the mountains,” Nate proposed. “One of us can create a diversion while the rest try to bust through the Blackfoot ring.”
“I’ll do it.”
“No, I will.”
“Why you?”
“I have the best horse. Pegasus can move like lightning. They’ll never lay a hand on me.”
Reverend Burke coughed. “How exactly will you go about diverting their attention?” he asked.
“I don’t rightly know yet, but I’ll think of something,” Nate said, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. Short of charging the Blackfeet, nothing he could do would occupy their attention long enough for Shakespeare and the rest to flee.
“I wouldn’t want your death on my conscience,” the minister said. “You’re in this fix because of me and it’s my responsibility to see to it that all of you get out safely.”
“You just lie there and rest,” Nate reiterated, puzzled by the reverend’s newfound interest in their welfare. It was a trifle late, in his opinion, for Burke to be thinking of them.
From the north came the retort of a rifle.
“George!” Nate declared. “I’ll go see why he fired.” He was off in a flash, weaving among the trunks, drawing both flintlocks on the run so he would be ready in case the unpredictable Blackfeet had launched a full-scale assault. He saw a commotion under the tree where he had left George, and rounding a thicket discovered the younger Burke in brutal combat with a sturdy Blackfoot. Each had his hands clamped on the other’s throat. Nearby lay the Hawken and a lance.
Nate was almost on them before the Blackfoot reacted to his arrival and looked up. The warrior, snarling like an enraged panther, pushed George away and clawed at a big knife in a beaded sheath on his right hip. All Nate had to do was extend his left pistol and fire.
Struck between the eyes, the Blackfoot stiffened, twirled, and pitched forward, striking the tree with a dull thump as he fell.
George put his hands on the ground and started to rise. “No!” Nate said, crouching and surveying the trees and the valley beyond. “Keep low unless you want an arrow in the back.”
“This one nearly had me,” George said breathlessly, his face red from his exertions. “I was watching the grass when I heard a faint sound behind me, and there he was.”
Nate glanced at the dead warrior. “He was eager to count coup, I reckon.”
“Odd thing, though,” George whispered. “He didn’t try to kill me when he had the chance. My back was to him and he could easily have run me through wit
h his lance, but instead he jumped me and tried to pin me down. Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps he wanted to take you alive. The Blackfeet take particular delight in torturing whites.”
George swallowed hard. “I see.” He moved to the Hawken and picked it up. “I had the gun cocked when he leaped on me and I’m afraid I accidentally squeezed the trigger.”
“No harm done. I have plenty of black powder and balls,” Nate said. Satisfied there were no more Blackfeet lurking close by, he reloaded both the rifle and the pistol. George watched him attentively.
“How can you do that so fast? It would take me two minutes just to measure out the right amount of powder.”
“When you load a gun often enough, you learn shortcuts. You learn how to judge the right amount of powder by sight alone. You always stick the patch between your front teeth until you’re done pouring the powder so you can wrap it around the ball that much quicker. And you always start the patch and ball down the barrel with your thumb, then use the ramrod. Shaving a few seconds here and there comes in handy when hostiles are out for your hair.”
George rested a hand on the flintlock tucked under his belt. “I never have been much good with these. Our mother wouldn’t allow guns in the house, so I never learned how to properly use them. A friend took me hunting a few times, but I never bagged a deer.”
“If we get out of this, I’ll teach you all you need to know,” Nate said with a smile. “You’ll go back to Rhode Island and bag the biggest buck in the state.”
“That would be something,” George said. He glanced toward the clearing where his brother rested on the travois. “Do you need me further? I’d like to check on John.”
“Go right ahead,” Nate said, and waited until the younger Burke was gone before he dashed to another tree ten feet away and knelt behind it. To prevent the Blackfeet from pinpointing his position, he could not stay in any one spot too long.
A profoundly disturbing silence enveloped the stand. Nate listened, but didn’t hear so much as a bird. The wildlife had all sought shelter or fled the vicinity. And the breeze had died down so even the high grass was still. He scoured the open tracts and saw nothing. But the Blackfeet were out there, waiting their chance. One mistake and he would pay for it with his life.
Easing onto his stomach, Nate crawled to the west until he could see the creek. The gently flowing, softly bubbling water lent a deceptively tranquil atmosphere to the setting. Sooner or later the Blackfeet would get around to sneaking up on them through the firs on the west side. There were undoubtedly a few concealed in the undergrowth already. If only he could spot one!
Glancing to his left, he spied Henry Allen coming toward him. The trapper moved with fluid grace, like a panther on the prowl, adept at woodland travel, using all available cover.
“I ran into George and he told me you got one of the bastards,” Allen whispered as he went prone in the shadow of a thicket.
“Four so far,” Nate said.
“Shakespeare has dropped two and I winged one. No wonder they’re in no rush to slaughter us.” Allen craned his neck upward. “That will change, though, once the sun starts to set.”
“We’re riding out before they can overwhelm us.”
“I know. McNair told me your plan,” Allen said, and looked at him. “Listen, friend. I would be grateful if you’ll take word to my wife should something happen to me. You can find the Crow village easy enough. Ride for four days due northwest and keep a lookout for a mountain with twin peaks, both covered with snow. There will be a river to the south of that mountain. The Crows are camped beside it.”
“Let’s pray I won’t have to,” Nate said.
Branches in the upper half of a pine across the creek suddenly swayed and a bronzed arm appeared, looped over a limb.
“Do you see what I see?” Allen asked, and snickered.
“I do.”
“Allow me the honor,” Allen said, pressing the Kentucky to his shoulder. He grinned as he cocked the hammer.
Nate saw the arm but no other part of the warrior. From the angle the arm was being held, he figured the Blackfoot was lying on the limb. Allen apparently figured the same way, because the next moment the Kentucky boomed and a warrior abruptly sat upright, a hand clutching his side. Grimacing in pain, the Blackfoot doubled over, lost his hold on the limb, and leaned precariously outward.
“Put a ball into him,” Allen urged. “Finish him off.”
Before Nate could do so, the warrior made a frantic grab at the limb, lost his perch, and plummeted. A high-pitched shriek ended when the Blackfoot slammed into the earth with a sickening crunch.
“That will teach the varmints!” Allen gloated.
As if to prove him wrong, a rifle cracked and a flight of arrows streaked above the creek and into the trees around them, smacking into trunks and limbs. One shaft thumped into the soil within inches of Nate’s foot.
Allen laughed. “We’ve got them riled now!”
The humor was lost on Nate. A second flight of arrows buzzed through the air like angry hornets, and he scooted next to a tree for protection. A shaft hit the front of the trunk, shattering instead of imbedding itself.
“Show yourselves, you yellow-bellies,” Allen growled as he fed black powder into his rifle. “I want another shot. Just one is all I ask.”
Nate saw a third swarm of arrows speed toward them. He had turned to say that the thicket was a poor shield, and to advise the trapper to find better shelter, when suddenly a shaft sped true.
Henry Allen was hit.
Chapter Nineteen
The arrow caught the trapper on the right side above the thigh, piercing him from front to back, the impact twisting him around. Allen grunted, grabbed the shaft, and sprawled onto his side, his features contorted in agony.
“Hang on!” Nate said, reaching Allen in two bounds and stepping over the lanky frontiersman to grasp him under the arms. Digging in his heels, he heaved, and dragged Allen away from the thicket as more shafts sought them. Several tightly spaced pines afforded sanctuary.
“It hurts like the dickens,” Allen rasped after Nate lowered him to the ground. Although in torment, he had held onto the Kentucky, which he now put beside him. “Damn them all to hell.”
Nate sank on one knee. Thankfully, the arrow had penetrated skin and flesh but missed the lower ribs. The barbed arrowhead jutted six inches from the exit wound, which in itself was a stroke of luck. Indians sometimes applied snake venom or other poisons to the tips of their shafts, and an arrowhead left in the body for any length of time could result in death even though it missed vital organs. Another reason trappers had to dig out arrowheads quickly was that the glue holding the arrowheads on the shafts often dissolved after twenty or thirty minutes. If a man didn’t get the head out before it came off, he would be forced to dig around inside with a knife or a special pair of thin pliers many trappers carried for just such an emergency.
“You know what to do,” Allen said, and bit his lower lip.
“First things first,” Nate said, and peered past the pines. The Blackfeet had vented their anger and were holding their fire. None were visible. Shifting, he searched around until he located a piece of broken branch as long as his middle finger and as thick as his thumb. This he gave to Allen.
“If I pass out I’ll never stand the shame,” the trapper said. He stuck the piece in his mouth and clamped down.
“Here we go,” Nate said, gripping the shaft below the arrowhead and bracing his other hand against Allen’s back over the exit wound, his finger curled over the arrow. Allen nodded once. Nate bunched his shoulder muscles, then wrenched with all his might.
The arrow broke with a loud snap.
Nate tossed the barbed tip aside and moved in front of the trapper. Allen’s brow was beaded with perspiration and saliva flecked his lips. “Can you take it?” Nate asked.
Brief anger animated Allen’s eyes. Free trappers prided themselves on their fortitude and their ability to endur
e pain without complaint. There were cases where men had been terribly mauled by grizzlies or been severely hurt battling hostiles, yet they’d never voiced a single complaint. Some, who hadn’t been able to extract a deeply imbedded arrowhead, carried the grisly memento inside of them for years before they came on someone with enough surgical skill to remove it. Allen impatiently motioned for Nate to proceed.
“Hold on,” Nate said, and again checked the trees across the creek for signs of the Blackfeet. He also scanned the north and east perimeter. The war party was still biding its time. Kneeling, he grasped the shaft next to Allen’s buckskin shirt, then pulled. While arrows frequently came out easily, on other occasions they were as hard to remove as a contrary wisdom tooth. This shaft was difficult to budge. He had to twist it slightly to work it loose, and keep twisting to get it to continue sliding out inch by slow inch.
Allen’s body shook, his teeth digging into the branch, his fists clenched on his lap.
“It’s coming,” Nate said, trying not to think of the fact his back was to the edge of the trees, and trying not to imagine what would happen should a Blackfoot spot him. He would be a sitting duck. The hair at the nape of his neck tingled the whole time he tugged on the arrow. When, at long last, the shaft popped free, blood dripping from the broken end, he promptly turned to look for hostiles. He saw only firs and brush.
Henry Allen spat out the branch, which had nearly been bitten in two, and gingerly touched his right side. “Thanks,” he said. He inhaled deeply and mopped his forehead.
“We should get you to the clearing,” Nate proposed, retrieving his Hawken.
“I can manage by my lonesome. You stay here in case those varmints try something.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quit babying me, King. I’m a growed man, not a kid,” Allen said, rising until he was stooped over, the Kentucky in his right hand. “Damned if you don’t act like a mother hen sometimes.” Chuckling, he made his way to the south.
Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5) Page 28