Behind him the Piegans slumbered on.
He was delighted at his success. By first light, when the war party would awaken and find the guard, his little group would be ten miles or better from the creek. Being on foot, the Piegans had no hope of catching them.
Nate reflected on the issue of the two greenhorns in depth. What should he do about the troublemakers? They weren’t part of the emigrant train, and it was highly doubtful Simon Banner would want them tagging along. Knowing Banner, Simon might shoot them on sight. But could they be persuaded to head back to the States? He doubted it. Libbie and Brian were in love, and young lovers were notorious for taking rash risks wiser heads would avoid at all costs. Brian had already stolen Libbie from her folks once; there was nothing to stop him from trying again.
It would help immensely if he knew why they had done what they did. Clearly, they had known one another before the Banners left for the promised land. Had Libbie’s father forced her to break off with Brian? If so, on what pretext? Did that explain why she hated Simon so much and why she had wanted to die?
There were so many questions and so few answers.
The greenhorns and Libbie were eagerly awaiting him. Brian, he saw, now held the Hawken, and the first thing Nate did upon rejoining them was to walk up and say flatly, “My rifle.”
Brian hesitated. “You have two pistols. I’d like to hold onto it for a while.”
“My rifle,” Nate repeated, extending his right hand, palm up.
“It’s only fair that we share your weapons. What if we’re attacked? Shouldn’t we be able to defend ourselves?”
Nate made no reply. He simply waited, his features flinty, until, with a sigh of displeasure, Brian gave the Hawken to him. Then Nate mounted Pegasus. “I hope all of you can ride bareback,” he said.
In a smooth, lithe motion, Libbie vaulted onto one of the other horses and held the rope rein in her left hand. “Don’t worry on my account, Mr. King. I was raised on a farm, remember? Before I was seven I could ride like the wind.”
Pudge stepped up to an animal and tentatively stroked its mane. “I never have been much of a rider and I’ve never gone bareback, but I’ll do the best I can.” Swinging up, he balanced himself and nodded. “All set.”
His face a mask of resentment directed at Nate, Brian climbed onto yet a third horse. “I’ll hold my own,” he declared. “And I’ll watch out for Pudge.”
“Then let’s go,” Nate said, taking the lead to the last horse in his left hand. “By nightfall we’ll be back at the wagons.”
“Do you have any idea what will happen when we get there?” Brian asked testily. “Libbie’s father will shoot Pudge and me on sight.”
“I won’t let him,” Nate promised.
“You don’t know Simon like we do,” Brian said. “He’s mean. No, worse than that. He’s downright wicked. The man has no consideration for anyone else, and he’s not above killing when he feels it’s right The world would be better off without him.”
“Those are mighty strong words,” Nate remarked, glancing at Libbie in the expectation of her speaking up in her father’s behalf. She sat glumly astride her mount her posture the picture of dejection.
“Every word is true,” Brian insisted.
“Maybe,” Nate allowed. “But the important thing is that Simon wants his daughter back. And since I agreed to guide the whole family to Fort Hall, I have to see to it that she’s returned to her folks no matter what my personal feelings on the matter might be.”
“You don’t think much of her pa either, do you?”
“I’ve met nicer people in my time,” Nate confessed, and urged Pegasus forward. “Enough jawing for now. This isn’t the proper time or place, not when the Piegans might show up at any time.”
That got them going, and for the next three hours they rode hard across the benighted landscape, most of the time through thick forest where low limbs and logs posed constant obstacles. When, at length, they entered a wide, grassy valley, Libbie goaded her horse up alongside Nate’s.
“Mr. King, I wanted to say that I’m sorry I’ve put you to so much trouble on my account. But I also want you to know that I would do it again if I had to. Brian and I are going to be married the first chance we get, and I won’t let anything stand in our way. Not even my pa.”
“I take it you’ve changed your mind about wanting to die?”
“Brian changed my mind for me. He says we can’t allow the past to poison the future. We have to be strong, to do whatever it takes to bring us true happiness.” She paused. “There comes a time in a person’s life when they have to do what is best for them, not what their parents might think is best for them. Don’t misunderstand. We should all honor our fathers and mothers, just as the Good Book tells us to do. But we have to cut the ties if the ties are strangling us.” Again she paused. “Does that make sense to you?”
“Perfect sense.”
“When I was young I was a dutiful girl. I always did as my folks wanted, and they never had any complaints.” Libbie gazed skyward. “I thought they were the most loving, kindest parents a girl could have.”
“Something changed your mind?” Nate prompted when she fell silent.
“Yes. I made a mistake. A big mistake, to be honest. But I thought I could count on their love and understanding to help see me through the hard times. I was wrong.”
“Is that why you despise your pa so?”
“If you only knew!” Libbie declared, her voice husky with repressed emotion. “He did something so terrible, so disgusting, that I’ll bear the scar inside of me for my entire life.”
Now was the moment of truth. Nate looked at her, hoping she would finally reveal the key to unraveling the mystery, but Brian came abreast of him on the other side.
“If it bothers you so much to talk about it, dearest, then don’t.” Brian nodded at Nate. “And there’s certainly no need to tell him everything. Some secrets are best kept secret.”
“I just thought he should know after all we’ve put him through,” Libbie said.
“All he needs to know is that we don’t want to go back to your father,” Brian said. “How about it, King? What will it take to change your mind?”
“Simon and Alice are counting on me to return her safe and sound,” Nate said.
“Even if she doesn’t want to be taken to them? Don’t her feelings count?”
Nate glanced to the right at the greenhorn, who rode with the makeshift rope rein in his left hand and with his right arm dangling out of sight on the far side. “I have a job to do and I aim to do it.”
“What if I paid you to let us go our own way?” Brian proposed. “The savages took all the money I had on me and scattered it on the ground. But I still have several hundred dollars in a bank account. Every penny of it is yours if you’ll ride on back to the Banners and tell Simon that you couldn’t find us.”
“I won’t lie. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
“What can it hurt? A little white lie?”
“Out here a man is only as good as his word. You might think it strange, but we take great stock in always being honest with folks, in always telling the truth.”
Brian studied Nate in the dim light. “Yes, I can see that trying to change your mind is a complete waste of time. I’m sorry, King, that it had to come this. If there was some other way, I’d gladly take it.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate asked, and too late saw out of the corner of his eye, Brian’s right arm arc up and around, swinging a long, dark object at his head. He tried to raise his arm to block the blow but was unsuccessful. Tremendous pain exploded in his right temple and scores of bright dots appeared before his eyes. Vaguely, he heard a scream. Then a second blow connected and the pain became a tidal wave that swamped his mind and plunged him into abysmal darkness.
Chapter Ten
The sun revived him.
Nate first became aware of the sensation of heat on his face. His cheeks felt warm enough to fry an egg
. He also heard the wind shriek past and the rustling of the high grass. Opening his eyes proved a twofold mistake; the bright glare of sunlight hurt them terribly, forcing him to squint, and pounding waves of agony rocked his head. Wincing in torment, he held a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun and slowly pushed up on one elbow.
He was lying in the middle of the valley, exactly where he had fallen, ringed by an ocean of grass. The position of the sun told him he had been unconscious for seven or eight hours. He touched his temple and felt dried blood.
Rising to his knees, he took stock. The others had taken Pegasus with them. His rifle was gone, as was one of his flintlocks. They had left him a single pistol, but stolen his powder horn and bullet pouch. Thankfully, they had not thought to appropriate his knife or his tomahawk. Close by lay his crumpled, bloodstained beaver hat. Beside it was a broken branch three feet long and as thick as his wrist, also bloodstained.
Nate leaned over to pick up the hat. He had only himself to blame for being left high and dry, since he had failed to keep watch on the others as they negotiated the tracts of woodland during the night. Obviously, Brian had spotted the branch and either hung over the side of his mount to grab it, or else had stopped and taken but fleeting seconds to arm himself. If Nate had stayed more alert, the greenhorn wouldn’t have been able to take him by surprise.
He placed his hat loosely on his head, and had started to shove to his feet when faintly to his ears came the sound of voices. Indian voices. Twisting, he rose high enough to peer over the top of the grass, and beheld a sight that made his pulse jump.
Just entering the eastern end of the valley was the Piegan war party, strung out in a line in typical fashion, the foremost warrior bent over to better read the sign.
Nate lowered to his hands and knees and scooted to the north, crawling as rapidly as the intense hammering between his ears allowed. He’d figured the Piegans would give up since they had no hope of catching quarry on horseback, but they were a persistent bunch. Perhaps they counted on their former captives stopping to rest. Or the loss of one of their own might have fired them with resolve to seek vengeance.
They were still far off, which gave Nate time to crawl to the closest trees and stand. He knew when they came on the spot where he had fallen they would plainly see what had happened and would realize that one of those they sought was afoot and not much ahead of them.
Turning westward, Nate ran. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, resisting the pain as best he was able. To help firm his own resolve he thought of Brian and what he would do to the treacherous vermin when he found him. Because he would find him. No matter how much time was required, nor how far afield he had to range, even back into the States if need be, he would track him down, recover Pegasus and his other possessions, and pay the greenhorn back in kind for the cowardly blow to his head.
At the west end of the valley the trees on the north and south side blended together into a sprawling stretch of pristine forest. Under different circumstances he would have enjoyed the lush scenery. Now he concentrated on making the best time, on avoiding downed trees and thickets that would slow him down.
A flurry of shouts to his rear was evidence the Piegans had found where he had been knocked off his stallion. In a minute they would be after him. Conditioned by the harsh land in which they dwelled, they were as sleek as deer and as muscular as panthers. No white man could hope to match their fleetness unless he was also mountain-bred or as crafty as a fox.
Nate would have to rely on his wits. He covered a quarter of a mile, then saw a mountain on his left. Making toward it, he found a ravine slicing into the underbelly of the mountain and penetrated a hundred yards into it. A thirty-foot-high wall on his right, latticed with erosion-worn cracks, afforded the hand-and footholds he needed to climb to the top.
He trotted fifty yards, then angled down the slope and resumed his westward flight. The detour would only slow the Piegans a bit but every bit helped.
All his years in the mountains was paying off in one respect; so far his lungs were holding up remarkably well. Few people in the States were aware of the strain high altitudes put on the human body. Many a trapper, on first venturing into the Rockies, discovered to his chagrin that his body turned traitor. Lungs used to dealing with sea-level altitude had to work much harder a mile or more up, and until a trapper adjusted to the drastic change he had to contend with chronic shortness of breath and difficulty with breathing after strenuous exertion. A few trappers whose bodies were for some unknown reason unable to make the adjustment were compelled to return to the States to sustain their health.
He was doing fine. A mile of steady running had left him only slightly winded. In the forest behind him rose a chorus of excited yips and whoops. The Piegans must be gaining despite his utmost effort.
Casting about for another way to slow them down, Nate spied a cliff composed of solid rock to his right. It was part of a low peak bordering the valley. Sprinting over to the base, he halted and took a few precious seconds to catch his breath. The cliff could be climbed with difficulty, but he had no intention of doing so. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the footprints he had made on his approach. He had deliberately slammed his feet down so that each moccasin print was complete and clear.
Now he had to focus every atom of his being on the ruse. Taking a breath, he also took a step backwards, placing his left foot directly down on top of the left footprint he had made just before he stopped. Then he quickly took another step backwards, this time setting his right foot down in the second-to-last track he had made. Ever backwards he went, each stride precise. He must be careful not to smudge the footprints or to leave two impressions. Doing so would be a dead giveaway the Piegans would instantly spot.
Walking backwards, he entered the trees. Next to a cluster of weeds he bunched his leg muscles and jumped, sailing over the weeds and breaking into a sprint the moment his feet touched the ground. How much time had he bought himself? Five minutes? Ten? It all depended on whether the Piegans fell for his ploy and believed he had scaled the cliff.
Not a minute later he heard an uproar when the Piegans came to the base of the rocky height, their impassioned yells echoing hollowly in all directions. They knew they were close behind him, and probably imagined he would soon be in their grasp. Some would climb up, others would flank the cliff on both sides. He heard nothing to indicate that they were aware of his scheme and in hot pursuit.
He allowed himself to relax slightly. His lungs now ached abominably; his arms and legs were becoming sluggish. He had to stop to regain his strength before he was too weak to lift a foot. A stand of aspens afforded the ideal hiding spot, and he moved into the center and knelt.
Nate would have given anything for ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, a luxury he was unlikely to savor for quite some time. He steadied his breathing and leaned against a trunk. As soon as he caught his breath he had to be on his way. To delay was to invite disaster since the Piegans wouldn’t stay fooled by his strategy forever.
Fatigue made his limbs feel leaden. He closed his eyes and sagged. His face felt flushed and he was perspiring freely. Mopping his brow, he thought of the scream he had heard when Brian struck him. That must have been Libbie, which meant she had not been expecting the attack. He was glad. He liked her, and he didn’t like to think she had been a willing party to such a dastardly act.
Straightening, Nate moved out of the aspens and hiked westward. He figured the others would head in that direction until they came to the Green River Basin. Then they would turn southeast and make for South Pass. His wisest course of action, therefore, might be to return to the emigrants and use one of their horses to catch Libbie and her friends.
Quite by accident he found fresh hoofprints, and recognized those of Pegasus among them. So he was on the right trail. He began trotting, his arms swinging loosely, pacing himself so as not to wear himself out prematurely.
Alternately trotting and briefly resting, he covere
d another mile. His buckskins were damp with sweat and clung to him like a glove. The sounds of the Piegans had long since faded, and he congratulated himself on outfoxing them.
A green meadow opened out before him. He ran through the tall grass, feeling it swish around his legs. Suddenly a feral shriek cut the air to the rear. Startled, he whirled and nearly tripped over his own feet at the sight of a lone stocky Piegan rushing out of the trees. The warrior waved a war club overhead and increased his speed.
Spinning, Nate ran for all he was worth. Had the Piegans discovered his trick already and were they now all close behind him, or was there only the one man? If he knew the answer to that, he would know whether to use his flintlock or not. The shot was bound to alert the rest, so he didn’t want to employ the pistol unless he was positive the entire war party had given chase, in which case it didn’t matter if they heard.
Nate decided to save the ball for when he really needed it. He drew his knife on the run and held it close in front of him so the pursuing warrior couldn’t see it. He gripped the blade, then intentionally slowed, pretending to be on his last legs, bending over as he glanced over his shoulder to mark the Piegan’s advance.
Sensing an easy kill, the warrior was ten yards off and closing like an avenging wraith. His mouth curled in a triumphant grin and he held the war club ready to swing a crushing blow.
Nate slowed to almost a walk. Surreptitiously watching the Piegan, he waited until the man was less than ten feet away before he uncoiled with stunning swiftness and threw the knife. Practice made perfect, as the saying went, and Nate had practiced such a toss on countless occasions.
He’d even won a few knife-and tomahawk-throwing contests at the annual rowdy Rendezvous where the trappers competed in everything from foot races to wrestling to hopping competitions.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 11