Libbie stared at her parents, then said in a strained whisper, “I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore. If I die, so much the better.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Am I?” she retorted. “If you only knew! I deserve to die, Mr. King. It doesn’t much matter to me whether I die at the hands of murderous Indians or of a broken heart. But one way or the other, I promise you I won’t reach the Oregon Territory alive.” With that she spun and climbed up into the Banner wagon.
Nate didn’t know what to make of her attitude. Her sincerity was indisputable. But what could have so drastically soured such a young, lovely woman, on life in general and her future in particular? Something awful must have occurred, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of what it might be.
“King?”
“Yes?” Nate replied absently, facing Simon, Alice, Neil, and Cora. The Nesmiths were huddled together on the ground.
“I told the others what you said about the war party,” Simon declared. “We’re all agreed that we should turn around and head back for St. Louis.”
“And what about Oregon? What about those who are waiting for you out there?”
“Our lives are more important than reaching the promised land on time. If we head out at dawn, we should be able to reach the prairie well before the heathens show up. And on the prairie we can make better time than here in the mountains. We might be able to outrun the Piegans.”
Neil Webster nodded in agreement. “At the very least we’ll be able to see them coming. We’ll have a better chance of defending ourselves.”
“You’re wrong on all counts,” Nate said flatly. “In the first place, there is no way three heavy wagons can outrun the Piegans. Like the Blackfeet and the Bloods they usually conduct their raids afoot, but they can run all day if they have to and cover three times the territory a white man could in the same amount of time. If they want our hides they’ll come after us no matter which way we go.”
“Do you have any other objections?” Simon asked testily.
“You bet I do. In the second place, you’d be no safer out on the prairie than you are in the mountains. Piegans can sneak up through tall grass as easily as they can through pine trees, and they’d have your throats slit before you knew they were there.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Neal inquired.
“Running scared isn’t the answer,” Nate told them. “To lick the Piegans, all we have to do is be craftier than they are. We have to outguess them every step of the way.”
Alice Banner spoke up. “Do you really believe we can?”
“We have a fair chance,” Nate said. “There’s one thing you folks have to remember. In some respects Indians regard life as more precious than whites do. They grieve terribly whenever someone dies. Those who lose loved ones may be in mourning for months. Sometimes they chop off a finger or cut off their hair or do something else to themselves to show how much they loved the one who died.”
“How barbaric!” Neil interrupted.
Nate ignored him. “They especially don’t like to lose a man on a raid. It’s bad medicine, the very worst kind of omen, if a war party returns bearing the news that some of the warriors died. The whole village goes into mourning.”
“So what are you telling us?” Simon asked impatiently.
“That if we hold fast, if we put up a good fight and maybe kill two or three more of them, they might decide we’re bad medicine and leave us alone.”
Neil glanced at the dead Piegan. “But they’ve already lost men. Why would they bother us again?”
“They’ll want revenge. And too, if they can take our scalps, if they can go back to their village with a lot of plunder, the loss of a few warriors will be easier to bear. Their people won’t view the raid as a total failure.” He peered up at the sparkling stars, noting the position of the Big Dipper. By his reckoning there were no more than five hours left until daylight. “If we can convince them that we’ll sell our lives dearly and every scalp they try to take will cost them a man or two, they’ll change their minds, turn tail, and leave.”
“If we agree to go along with you, what do you want us to do?” Simon asked.
“Get set to head out right away.”
“You want us to travel at night? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not if we stick to open ground. I know this neck of the woods well, and I shouldn’t have any problem finding a spot where we can make a stand. The important thing is to put a few miles behind us, to buy us some time.”
“We’ll talk it over,” Simon said, and motioned for the others to join him as he moved to one side.
They were like frightened children, Nate reflected, ready to give up at the first grave hardship they ran into. If they were an accurate measure of the hordes of emigrants expected to one day flock to Oregon, then those untold thousands would fare better staying in the States. The frontier was no place for greenhorns, for those lacking courage. They had no idea of what they were getting themselves into. The wilderness was a harsh mistress, demanding the utmost from those who would dwell in her domain, and those who failed to take her seriously paid for their neglect with their lives. For the wild beasts and mankind alike, the unwritten law of the land was brutally simple: the survival of the fittest.
He walked to Pegasus, and happened to notice that Neil Webster had failed to tie up all the horses as he had directed. Maybe Nate was wasting his time trying to save these people. He certainly wasn’t appreciated. Men like Simon and Neil thought they knew it all, thought they could do anything and everything without help from anyone else. And they resented being told what to do by someone who knew the realities of life in the wild better than they did.
Nate scratched his chin and stroked the stallion’s neck. Perhaps this guiding business wasn’t all it had promised to be. Was it worth the price of daily headaches over petty concerns, of having to put up with arrogant greenhorns looking down their noses at him, just so he could earn a few dollars? There were more important things in life than money. A man had his integrity to think of.
He saw Libbie peeking from the wagon and speculated on what could be bothering her. If she was so intent on dying, she might do something to give death a hand. It would be smart to keep an eye on her when possible so he could try and stop her from doing anything foolish. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
After a minute Simon and the rest came back. The Nesmiths were now with them. Harry was pale and squinted in the bright lantern light.
“We’ve made up our minds,” Simon announced. “We took a vote, and against my better judgment everyone has agreed to follow your lead. Our lives are in your hands.”
“They have been ever since I took over from Fraeb,” Nate reminded them. It was Isaac Fraeb who had initially agreed to take the emigrants from St. Louis to Fort Hall. And if Fraeb hadn’t come down with a stomach sickness out on the Plains, Nate would be in his warm, cozy cabin with his wife and son right that minute. But Fraeb had become too sick to go on much farther despite trying every remedy known to whites and Indians alike. Isaac needed lots of bed rest, which he wouldn’t get while acting as nursemaid for the pilgrims. So, gritting his teeth against the pain, Fraeb had ridden to ask the help of the one man he felt could handle the chore, namely Nate. And now Nate almost wished he had declined the offer.
“Do you want us to hook up the teams?” Neil inquired.
“Yes,” Nate said. “We’re pulling out in ten minutes.” He looked at Nesmith. “Are you up to driving a wagon?”
“I’m a bit woozy,” Harry said, gingerly touching his head. “And I have dizzy spells that come and go.” He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “But don’t worry. Eleanor can handle a wagon as good as I can. We’ll keep up with the rest.”
“I hope so, for your sakes,” Nate said.
The camp transformed into a whirlwind of activity as the men hastened to hook up their horses and the women filled all the water skins. Little was said. They all knew thei
r lives were at risk, that every moment counted.
Nate took the lead, riding close to the Banner wagon. The settlers strung out in single file, a mere ten feet between the rear of each wagon and the lead horses of the next team. He took them out of the valley, then swung to the north, sticking to the open areas where the wagons made better time. They hugged the base of the mountains ringing the great basin they were in, and never strayed far from tracts of forest that would serve as their refuge should the Piegans appear sooner than Nate expected.
Traveling at night was a unique experience. The heavens were spectacular, as if a beautiful tapestry of radiant gems had been woven by divine fingers exclusively for human enjoyment. The sight was enough to take a man’s breath away. And the cool breeze was a welcome contrast to the high heat of the day.
Some of the horses balked, being weary from their toils earlier, but a few cracks of a whip convinced them to forge onward. Occasionally wolves howled in the distance, or coyotes voiced their high-pitched yips. Owls, those nocturnal predators more rapacious than eagles, hooted frequently. Twice panthers vented rumbling snarls from near at hand. Every so often a rodent or some other animal would screech as it was caught in the grip of a stealthy prowler. And once, as the wagons passed a ravine, from within arose the unforgettable tremendous roaring of a grizzly. A few of the horses shied and the drivers had to calm them down before the wagons could proceed.
None of the night sounds were new to Nate. He lived with them every night, and knew them all. But he could tell the emigrants were a bit unnerved. Small wonder. It invariably surprised those who lived sheltered lives back in the States, those who conducted all their affairs while the sun was up and retired to their comfortable homes after dark, who lived in regions depleted of game, to learn that the wilderness was completely different. More animals were abroad at night than during the day, and many of them were meat-eaters that ventured out only under the cover of darkness to satisfy their cravings for raw flesh. That was why so few people ever saw panthers, bobcats, lynxes, wolverines, and the like; the animals roamed the land while the people were tucked safely in bed.
Nate held the Hawken handy, the stock resting on his right thigh, his thumb on the hammer, his finger on the trigger. It was rare for any of the big carnivores, other than grizzlies, to attack humans unless they were provoked, but he was taking no chances.
The bloodcurdling screams of the panthers underscored his hunger. Like most mountain men, he rated panther meat as downright delicious. Given a choice between a buffalo steak and a good cut of panther, ten times out of ten the mountaineers would pick the panther. Since he had not had a bite to eat since morning, he would have settled for any hot meal. Instead, he took out several pieces of jerked venison and munched on them.
Toward morning the wind picked up until it was near hurricane force, buffeting the wagons and violently shaking the canvas covers. The men had to wedge their hats down on their heads or lose them, and the women all securely tied their bonnets. Such high winds were common in the region, more so in early spring when warmer weather began to drive out the colder air.
Nate was constantly on the lookout for a suitable place to make their stand. There were plenty of gullies and ravines, but being caught in them would be a certain death warrant. He preferred high ground, somewhere with water and cover. While there were any number of hills and mountain slopes to pick from, none were ideal. There was either no water nearby or they lacked enough cover to suit him. He began to think he was being too fussy, and when the first streaks of pink and orange painted the eastern sky he resolved to find a spot soon no matter what.
Apparently Simon Banner was equally eager to stop, for he called out, “How much farther, King?”
“We’ll call a halt before too long,” Nate replied.
“I hope so. Our animals are on the verge of exhaustion. If the Piegans do show, we’ll be stuck wherever they find us.”
Shortly thereafter a ridge on the right drew Nate’s attention. A gentle slope to the top was dotted with widely spaced trees, but the pines ended dozens of yards below the rim. Of more interest was what appeared to be a ribbon of water flowing down the west side. “Hold up!” he shouted, lifting his left hand. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
Pegasus galloped to the ridge and took the slope on the fly. Nate leaned forward to make the going easier for the stallion as its huge hoofs sent clumps of dirt flying to their rear. He made straight for the water and was overjoyed to find a small spring sheltered by boulders just below the crest. From the top he could see for miles in all directions. The opposite slope was charred black, the consequence of a fire triggered by a lightning strike on a gigantic tree that still stood, although the trunk was split down the middle and most of the limbs had been blasted off. With the vegetation burned away, there were few hiding places on the far slope the hostiles could take advantage of.
“This will have to do,” Nate said, moving along the rim. The top consisted of an acre of flat ground, more than ample space for parking the wagons. Nodding in satisfaction, he moved to the west side and rose in the saddle to beckon the emigrants to join him. But as he raised his arm, he paused.
To the south, advancing at a determined dogtrot, was a long line of figures.
They were too far off for Nate to note details, which weren’t important anyway. He knew who they were. He knew the settlers had run out of time.
The Piegans were coming and they would be out for blood.
Chapter Five
Nate counted fourteen warriors. He shifted his gaze to the wagons and wildly waved his arm, motioning for the emigrants to head for the hill, but his effort was wasted. The men had climbed down and were conversing next to Webster’s wagon. Not one noticed him. And only one of the women, Alice Banner, was in sight. She was idly staring off to the west, admiring the view.
“Damn greenhorns,” Nate muttered, putting his heels to the stallion. Pegasus raced down the slope and across the flat. The Piegans were still out of sight to the south but they wouldn’t be for long, and once the warriors spied the wagons they would rush forward to attack.
The men turned as he pounded up. Simon Banner was the first to notice the anger on his face. “What’s the matter, King? You look like you’re fit to be tied.”
“Didn’t any of you dunderheads think to keep an eye peeled on me?” Nate rejoined. “While you stand here jawing, the Piegans are closing the gap. I saw them from up yonder. We have to get to the top of that ridge just as fast as you can whip your teams.”
They needed no further prompting. Dashing to their respective wagons, they hastily climbed up and started urging their teams toward the ridge. Banner was in the lead, as usual, his whip cracking the loudest, his bellowing the harshest.
Nate hung back to cover them. He focused on the point where he figured the war party would appear. Not quite a minute later it did, and as he had foreseen, the Indians bounded through the high grass like panthers rushing hapless prey, their shrill war whoops and bloodcurdling shrieks rending the air.
The wagons had reached the bottom of the ridge and the horses were now toiling up the slope. They strained in their harnesses, their muscles rippling, their backs straight, their heads bowed, as they threw their entire bodies into their work, the heavy wagons making difficult a chore they normally could achieve with ease.
Halting, Nate tucked the Hawken to his shoulder and pointed the heavy barrel at the onrushing Indians. They saw him but, in testimony to their courage, none of them slowed. He sighted on the fleetest of the band, a strapping warrior armed with a war club twice the size most men could wield. Cocking the hammer, he touched his finger to the cool trigger, held his breath, and verified the sights were right where they should be. Then, and only then, he lightly squeezed the trigger.
The Hawken cracked, belched smoke and lead, and the foremost Piegan did a somersault and disappeared in the grass.
Nate’s fingers were a blur as he reloaded. First he fed black powder down the barrel. Then
, using the ramrod, he shoved a patch and ball down until both were snug against the powder. Finally, he cocked the rifle again and took deliberate aim. This time he was thwarted, however, when the Piegans, to a man, went to ground. One moment they were speeding toward him; the next they were gone, seemingly vanished off the face of the earth.
Grabbing the reins, he goaded Pegasus up the slope, staying behind the last wagon all the way to the top. There, he dismounted and took a position above the spring. Below, the Piegans were fanning out. He caught glimpses of them here and there as they darted from cover to cover. Behind him drummed footsteps.
“What should we do?” Simon Banner asked.
“One of you take the north side, one the east, and one the south. If you get a good shot, try and cut the odds. If not, don’t waste powder. And if you see them getting set to rush us, give a yell.”
Neil Webster surveyed the barren acre. “I don’t much like being hemmed in like this,” he commented.
“You can’t call this being hemmed in when we can make a run for it any time we want,” Nate said. “This high ground gives us the advantage since we can see them before they get too close. And it’s easier to shoot downhill than it is uphill.”
“I still don’t like it,” Neil said.
Once they had moved off, Nate eased down among the boulders rimming the spring. He dipped his hand in the cold water and drank his fill, then crawled out to where he enjoyed a bird’s-eye view of the whole west slope. A hundred yards off an Indian dashed from one tree to another, too quickly for Nate to snap off a shot.
What would the Piegans do? Nate wondered. They were crafty devils, and they were bound to realize that an assault from all sides at once would cost them too many men. Their best bet, and one they would see in no time, was to make a mass rush up a single side of the ridge, counting on their superior numbers to overwhelm the defenders.
Which side would it be? Nate’s brow furrowed as he tried to think like a Piegan. The east slope, where the lightning-spawned fire had burned off the vegetation, was out of the question since the Piegans would be easy targets. Which left three possibilities. The south side, though, was connected to a neighboring mountain by a narrow shoulder with few trees and boulders. On the north the ridge sloped steeply down into a notch. So the best approach was from the west, the very slope Nate was watching.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 5