“Libbie! Answer me!”
Nate stood and took the tin cup to his wagon. Placing it inside, he put a hand on his saddle, and was starting to lift it when a sharp cry rent the air.
“King! Come here, quick!”
Cradling the Hawken, Nate trotted to where Simon Banner was squatting well beyond the wagons, almost at the edge of the grass. “What did you find?”
“Take a look. Then you tell me.”
The tracks were as plain as the nose on Nate’s face, clearly embedded in the saturated soil. Four horses, two heavily laden judging by the depth of the hoof prints, had ridden up close to the camp from the east and a man had dismounted. Whoever it was had then approached the wagons but stopped ten feet off. Another set of footprints, smaller and dainty, undoubtedly those of a young woman, ran in a straight line from the Banner wagon to where the man had stood. Together the pair had stepped to the man’s horse and mounted, and all the horses had made off to the southeast.
“Does this mean what I think it does? My daughter went with these strangers?”
Suddenly Nate remembered his encounter with the two greenhorns named Brian and Pudge at South Pass. In all the excitement of battling the Piegans, he had forgotten about them. But he would wager a year’s catch of prime beaver pelts that the tracks in front of him were left by the pair and their animals.
The shouts had drawn the rest of the emigrants. Alice had a green shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Neil Webster was pale but held himself erect, Cora supporting him with an arm around his waist.
“Libbie has been kidnapped!” Alice now declared in stark horror. “Did the savages take her?”
“No, these were shod horses. Even I can see that,” Simon answered, and glanced up at Nate. “Say, you never did tell us who had that fire going on the top of South Pass. Could they be the ones who took our girl?”
“There were two of them,” Nate said. “Called themselves Brian and Pudge.”
“Oh, God!” Alice wailed. “Not him!”
Glowering in unbridled rage, Simon rose and shook a fist at Nate. “Why didn’t you tell us about them sooner? Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you fool?”
“If you’ll recall,” Nate said, keeping his temper with a monumental effort, “the minute I got back to camp, I had to stop some of the Piegans from stealing your stock. From then on we were kept busy just staying alive.” He shrugged. “I forgot about Brian and Pudge.”
“Of all the dunderheads who ever lived, you take the cake!” Simon practically roared. “Now, thanks to you, our daughter has been taken by those degenerates.” Taking a step, he drew back his fist. “I should thrash you within an inch of your life.”
And with that, Simon swung.
Chapter Eight
Nate exploded, releasing his pent-up feelings in a burst of fiery indignation. For days the emigrant leader had treated him as less than dirt, insulting him, mocking him, taunting him, and he had tolerated all he was going to stand. He blocked Simon’s swing with the Hawken barrel, then rammed his right fist into Simon’s mouth. Banner’s lips split wide and the emigrant staggered. Unrelenting, Nate stepped in and landed a blow on Simon’s cheek, then buried his fist in Simon’s stomach.
“Stop it!” Alice screamed. “Please!”
Not in any mood to slack off, Nate delivered a sweeping punch to the chin that straightened Banner like a board. Slowly Simon crumpled into a limp heap, blood dribbling from his smashed mouth.
“How could you?” Alice yelled at Nate. She knelt beside her husband and tenderly took Simon’s head in her hands. “Look at what you’ve done to him! And I thought you were a decent man!”
“I suppose you’d be happier if he had pounded me to a pulp?” Nate responded in disgust. Hefting the Hawken, he whirled and went to the horses. It would be a cold day in Hell, he mentally vowed, before he took a job as a guide again. Easterners had no respect for anyone but themselves, a fact he should have remembered from his years in New York. He led Pegasus to the back of the Nesmith wagon, leaned his rifle against a wheel, and hurriedly saddled up. After filling a parfleche with jerky, he rolled it in a blanket and tied both behind his saddle. As he gripped the reins to mount, he heard footsteps.
“Where are you going?” Neil Webster asked.
Nate swung up, then leaned down to scoop up the Hawken. “Where do you think?” he rejoined. “Someone has to fetch the girl back.”
Cora exhaled in relief. “We were afraid you were leaving us to fend for ourselves.” She forced a smile. “Not that we’d blame you after the way some of us have been treating you.”
“I took the job of escorting all of you to Fort Hall, and that’s what I aim to do,” Nate said. He nodded at the Banners. “Do what you can to calm them down. And make damn sure that none of you try to follow me. I should be back by dark, but if I’m not, don’t fret.”
“Take care of yourself,” Neil offered.
“Always,” Nate replied, touching his heels to the stallion. Was their concern genuine, or were they only worried about what would happen to them if he failed to come back? He rode past the Banners and Alice turned spite-filled eyes on him, but she made no comment. Simon still lay unconscious.
Angling to the southeast, Nate stuck to the fresh tracks. His blood still raced, his temples pounded, and he was glad to be on the go again, to be doing something that would take his mind off the emigrants. Being away from them for a spell was just what he needed.
He stared at the tracks, concentrating on the task at hand. Brian and Pudge must have reached the stream in the wee hours of the morning, well after the rain had ended, since there was no water in any of the hoofprints, so they couldn’t have more than a two-or three-hour lead. Burdened as they were with two pack animals, and with one of them riding double with Libbie, they should be easy to overtake.
Pegasus enjoyed being given free rein, and ate up the distance at a steady trot. Other than a few antelope and a solitary hawk, nothing else moved in the great basin between the Wind River Range and the Salt River Range.
The golden sun cleared the eastern horizon, bathing the landscape with warmth and light.
Nate speculated on the connection between Libbie Banner and the two men she was with. From the tracks, he gathered she had gone with them willingly and not been kidnapped as her parents claimed. There had been no evidence of a struggle, no sign of scuffed, distorted footprints as there would have been had Libbie put up a fight. Nor had she bothered to call out. So she must know one or both of them.
An hour out from the camp he was disturbed to find that Brian and Pudge had changed direction. Now they were going due east. Why? Doing so would take them into the Wind River Range, where the Piegans were most active. Worse, if they continued on the way they were going, they would soon be near the very ridge where the emigrants had fought the war party. Should the surviving warriors still be in the area, the three whites would be in grave jeopardy.
He brought the stallion to a gallop and pressed on until the range appeared. Then he slowed to give Pegasus a brief rest, fastening his gaze on the point far ahead where the tracks blended into the grass in the hope of spotting the four horses and their riders.
The ridge became visible, half a mile to the north. He rode faster, the Hawken resting on his thighs, one hand on the rifle with his thumb on the hammer. Perhaps Brian and Pudge, knowing that someone would come after them, were heading for the forest covering the high slopes with the intention of losing themselves in the dense trees.
The trail brought him to the base of a foothill fronting a majestic peak covered with glistening snow. He stopped to scour the pines and boulders above. Suddenly he caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and spied a thin gray tendril wafting skyward halfway up the hill. They had stopped and made camp!
Grinning, Nate moved toward the spot. He would have Libbie back with her folks by mid-afternoon. Bending low, he passed under a thick limb, then went around a cluster of boulders. Of its own accord the stallion halted and tossed its head fr
om side to side while uttering a low whinny.
Something was wrong.
Nate climbed down, tied the reins to a bush, and stalked upward. A clearing came into sight. In the center was the fire, or the embers of one, glowing red and giving off the smoke that had caught his eye. Not a living soul could be seen, nor were the horses anywhere nearby. Had they spotted him and left? he wondered, creeping nearer. Or had they only stopped for a short while, just long enough to grab a bite to eat, and then gone on?
Disappointed, he made a partial circuit of the clearing before he ventured into the open. In the soft earth at the base of a tree he discovered a moccasin print, and in the clearing itself, not a yard from the fire, was a puddle of moist blood. His worst fear had come true.
A thorough search revealed that four Piegans had surrounded the camp, then pounced at an opportune moment. One of the whites, Pudge by the footprints, had gone down almost immediately, but Brian had resisted mightily before being overpowered. The Piegans would have struck so fast that it was doubtful either of them had managed to get off a shot.
He found where the Piegans had headed to the northeast, leading the horses. Evidently Libbie was mounted, but the two men had been compelled to walk behind the animals with a Piegan trailing and probably covering them with a gun or a bow. Drops of blood confirmed that one of them was wounded. If he had to guess, he would say it was Brian.
Sprinting to Pegasus, Nate mounted and rode in pursuit. He was an hour behind the war party at the most, and on horseback he should come on them before noon. Heedless of the limbs that tugged at his clothing and scratched his face, he held the stallion to a brisk clip.
He felt reasonably certain the Piegans wouldn’t slay their captives right off. The whites would be taken to the Piegan village, where the men would be tortured before being killed and Libbie would in all likelihood find herself the unwilling mate of a prominent warrior, unless the Blackfeet women got their hands on her first.
It had taken Nate a long time to come to terms with the Indian way of measuring manhood and gauging courage in their enemies. Torture was the preferred means. Mutilation of captives was widespread, not due to a depraved desire to inflict suffering but as a means of putting a captive to the supreme test. If an enemy held up stoically under the worst treatment conceivable, then that enemy was regarded as truly brave and a credit to his tribe and would be put out of his misery quickly. But if a captured foe whined and pleaded and groveled, then he was mocked and scorned and allowed to linger in the most intense agony for as long as he endured the ordeal.
Not all tribes resorted to the barbaric practice. The Shoshones, Nate’s adopted people, were less prone to mutilation than most of the surrounding tribes, but they would unhesitatingly torture any Blackfeet, Bloods, or Piegans they caught. With perfect justification, because those three tribes were the very worst offenders of all the Indians living in the northern Rockies and Plains. Shoshones who fell into their hands knew exactly what horrors to expect, which explained why the Shoshones as a people were utterly merciless toward those three tribes.
The tracks took Nate up and over the hill, down into a ribbon of a valley, and then toward rugged mountains. Occasionally he came on more drops of blood, but they were fewer and farther between. Which was a good sign. If whoever had been wounded collapsed and was unable to go on, the Piegans would dispatch him then and there after testing his manhood in some diabolically gruesome manner.
At the base of a towering peak the trail turned northward. Nate was thankful for the recent storm. The rain-saturated soil bore clear prints, so tracking was a simple chore.
A mile further on the Piegans had turned to the northeast again, passing between two mountains on a well-used game trail. Indians knew that animals invariably followed the path of least resistance when traveling, making game trails ideal avenues for crossing rough terrain. The trappers had readily learned the same thing, and experienced mountaineers relied heavily on such trails when exploring new country.
There was another reason for the practice. Often game trails led to water, and water was precious to man and beast alike. Nothing lasted long without it. The man who stuck to a deer or elk trail could be confident that somewhere along the way there would be good drinking water.
Nate saw elk, deer, and mountain sheep tracks as he rode. There were also prints of smaller animals, such as rabbits, skunks, and porcupines. Mixed in with the tracks of the plant-eaters were the distinctive paw prints of panthers and bobcats. Because of the great number, he figured there was a lake or a river ahead.
His hunch proved correct.
Beyond the mountains unfolded a virgin valley lush with spruce, fir, and aspen trees. Dominating the center of the valley was a shimmering blue lake, toward which the game trail meandered through the underbrush. A carpet of pine needles muffled the thud of the stallion’s hoofs.
Nate rode cautiously, his sixth sense telling him the Piegans were not far off. As he drew near the lake he heard gruff voices speaking in an Indian tongue he did not know. Halting, he slid down and worked his way along until he could see the lake and the shore clearly. There he found those he was after.
Three of the four Piegans were standing near the water, talking. The fourth, armed with a rifle taken from Brian or Pudge, stood guard over the captives. The two men and Libbie all had their hands bound behind their backs and were seated on the ground close to the horses. A large red stain on Brian’s right shoulder confirmed he was the one who had been wounded earlier.
Lying down, Nate took aim at the Piegan holding the rifle. Then he paused, debating whether he should shoot. There was no chance of missing, but could he drop the rest of the Piegans fast enough to prevent any of them from reaching the three whites? The answer was no. And he wouldn’t put it past the Piegans to use the captives as shields, or else to kill them out of blatant spite.
Reluctantly, he held his fire. He must await a better time. If some of the Piegans should go off to hunt or leave for some other reason, he would have the captives freed in no time. If he had to, he’d wait until dark, until most of the warriors were asleep, and then make his move.
At that moment Brian spoke. “Would it hurt to give us some water, you bastards?”
None of the Piegans paid him the least regard. The one acting as guard was gazing off to the north.
“Water!” Brian snapped. “We’re all thirsty.” He nodded at the lake. “All we want is a few sips. Is that too much to ask?”
The guard looked at him but made no response.
“At least let her have some,” Brian persisted, indicating Libbie. “She’s a woman, you savages! She deserves to be treated decently.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Pudge said softly.
“If I could only get my hands free,” Brian said, straining against the rope around his wrists. His face became scarlet from his exertion and his veins bulged.
“Please don’t,” Libbie said. “You’ll start bleeding again, and you’ve already lost too much blood as it is.”
“I feel fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar. No man can take a knife in the shoulder and then act as if nothing happened. You should be resting comfortably in bed.” Libbie glanced at the Piegans by the lake. “If they keep on pushing us as hard as they’ve been doing, all of us will be worn to a frazzle when we get to wherever we’re going. But you’ll be the worst off. So please, for my sake, conserve your strength.”
“For you, dearest, anything,” Brian said with a smile.
Nate’s eyes narrowed. Had he heard correctly? Had the greenhorn just called Libbie his “dearest”?
“Don’t say that,” she replied. “It’s my fault you’re in this fix. If you hadn’t come after me, we wouldn’t be staring death in the face.” She sadly shook her head. “You should have left well enough alone.”
“Oh?” Brian said sarcastically. “I should have stayed back in the States while the woman I love was being taken against her will to the Oregon Territory? I s
hould have let your father have his way when we both know he’s wrong? When we both know that what he did was the most vile thing any person has ever done?”
Libbie closed her eyes, her mouth curling downward. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You must come to terms with it one day. Better now than ten years from now. It’s enough to drive someone insane.”
“Brian!”
Brian studied her tormented features, then scowled. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t help how I feel. If it wasn’t for you, I’d put a ball in your father’s head.”
Tears poured down Libbie’s cheeks and she doubled over as if in pain, her forehead resting on the grass.
Pudge angrily stared at Brian. “Now look at what you’ve done! Why must you upset her so at a time like this? Hasn’t she been through enough already?” He made a clucking sound in reproach. “You’re my best friend, so believe me when I say that sometimes you act as bad as these lousy Injuns.”
The captives fell into a moody silence. Nate watched them, trying to piece together the little information he had gleaned. Now he understood why Libbie had gone willingly with the pair. From the sound of things, her father had nipped her romance with Brian in the bud and dragged her off to the promised land despite her wishes.
He saw the three Piegans walk over to the fourth, and after a brief discussion the captives were hauled to their feet. Libbie was bodily lifted onto a horse, the tallest of the warriors climbed on the other mount, and presently they were all moving around the west side of the lake. One of the Piegans handled the packhorses while the other two walked on either side of Brian and Pudge.
Nate ran to Pegasus and followed. He stayed in the trees, always keeping the party in sight but never, ever exposing himself to their view. Miles of forest fell behind them. The sun climbed ever higher. He wasn’t worried that the Piegans would reach their village before nightfall since Piegan territory lay two or three days to the northeast, which would allow him plenty of time to effect a rescue.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 9