“I do feel a mite tuckered out,” Shakespeare said. “Must be the worry. But it doesn’t take much strength to flap my gums.”
“We’re going after them at dawn.”
“Watch yourselves. They’ll be expecting pursuit. You might wind up riding smack into an ambush.”
“We’ll do our best.”
Shakespeare, wincing and grunting, shifted position. “Listen to me, son, and listen good. The lives of all those the Apaches took may wind up depending on you and you alone. Francisco is a good man, and his vaqueros are as brave as any I’ve ever met, but they’re no match for Apaches out in the wild. They’ll be out of their element.”
“Francisco says he has some good trackers.”
“By his standards they are. But they can’t hold a candle to you or me, and they’re babes in the woods compared to the Apaches.”
“It doesn’t matter how good the Apaches are. I’m not letting those bloodthirsty sons of bitches get away.”
“That’s nice to hear, but don’t be so hard on them. They’re only doing what comes naturally.”
“Did I just hear right?” Nate asked. “How can you defend them after what they’ve done?”
“You don’t know the whole story,” Shakespeare said with a sigh. He draped a forearm across his clammy brow and elaborated. “The Apaches weren’t always so hostile. When the first Spaniards showed up in this region the Indians hereabouts were downright friendly. Then the Spaniards took to enslaving them, to forcing them to work in the mines and the fields, to treating them as no better than animals. Their women were abused, their children left to starve.” He paused. “How would you react if that happened to your people?”
Nate said nothing.
“Ever since then the Apaches have hated all outsiders. They waged war on the Spaniards and they’re waging war on the Mexicans because the Apaches see them as intruders who have mistreated their people and taken over their land. Branding them as bloodthirsty is a pure and simple case of judging another people’s corn by your own bushel.”
“I had no idea.”
“Now that I’ve said my piece, I have one thing left to add,” Shakespeare declared, reaching out and grasping Nate’s wrist. “Do whatever it takes to save our loved ones. Hound the war party to the ends of the earth if need be. Kill as many Apaches as stand in your way. But no matter what, save them.”
Nate simply nodded.
Weakened by his exertion, Shakespeare collapsed and closed his eyes. “So tired,” he said feebly. “So tired.” In moments he was sound asleep.
A long silence ensued as Nate sat and stared at his slumbering friend. At length he stood, gave McNair a pat on the leg, and hurried off to get dressed and load all his guns. Soon it would be morning, he reflected. Soon he must match wits with the fiercest warriors west of the Mississippi.
And all too soon he might well be dead.
Chapter Nine
They were a grim, determined group of men as they rode away from the hacienda before the sun even rose. A rapidly spreading golden tinge was brightening the eastern half of the sky and affording enough light for them to see the ground well enough to track the Apaches. From the southwest wafted a warm sluggish breeze promising a blisteringly hot day.
Nate rode at the front of the somber vaqueros between Francisco Gaona and Ignacio. Since they wanted to travel fast they were traveling light. Rather than slow all of them down by bringing along a string of pack animals, each vaquero had a small pack containing a meager food ration and extra ammunition tied securely behind his saddle.
A man named Pedro, the best tracker on the rancho, was a dozen yards in front of the main body, bending low to search for sign. The ground was relatively soft in the verdant valley so Pedro was having no trouble trailing the band, as yet. But once they reached the more arid hills and rocky mountains the chore would become extremely difficult if not almost impossible.
From what Nate could see as he scoured the soil ahead, the Apaches had made no effort to conceal the tracks left when they lit out with the captives and their spoils. While the vaqueros had prevented the war party from stealing any of the prize stock in the corral, the Apaches had taken some of the free-roaming horses and mules; a half dozen of the former and seven or eight of the latter. The hoof prints were as plain as the nose on his face.
He wondered about such apparent carelessness. From all he had heard about Apaches they never made mistakes. So why would they try to steal a small herd of stock when they knew the Mexicans would soon be in earnest pursuit, when they knew the tracks would lead the Mexicans right to them? There was only one answer as near as he could tell, which filled him with dread.
The tracks took them to the southwest, toward harsh, rugged country fit neither for man nor beast.
Within three hours they came to a narrow plain crisscrossed by shallow arroyos and deep ravines. Beyond lay a range of mountains, the peaks devoid of snow, thrusting stark and barren high into the dry air. Here Pedro slowed because reading the sign was much harder.
“It is too bad about the dust,” Francisco abruptly commented. “They will see us coming from a long way off.”
Preoccupied with his thoughts, Nate hadn’t paid much attention to the body of vaqueros behind him. He now did, twisting to see the that a swirling cloud of dust was rising from under the hoofs of their many mounts. “You should string them out,” he said.
“Señor?”
“Instead of riding all bunched up the way we are, you should have the vaqueros string out in a line with no more than two men riding side by side. We’ll stir up less dust that way.”
Francisco seemed stunned by so obvious a suggestion. “I should have thought of that myself, but I’m afraid that I am not thinking very clearly at the moment. I am too filled with worry. Do you realize that I know of only two times where women taken by the Apaches were ever recovered?”
“Then this will be the third,” Nate said.
“I pray it is so, my friend,” Francisco responded, and gave instructions in Spanish to Ignacio, who then slowed to mingle with the body of vaqueros and relay the orders. Presently they were strung out as Nate had advised, two abreast, and the telltale cloud of dust was drastically reduced.
The ground became harder, rockier. The hoofprints virtually disappeared. Several times Pedro held up a hand and called a halt; then he would dismount and get down on his knees to better check for sign.
While waiting, Nate would scour the ground himself, and he noticed that he was able to see nicks and scratches that Pedro apparently missed. At the third halt he turned to Francisco and commented, “Maybe it would help matters if I gave Pedro a hand. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
“Of course,” Francisco said, and called out to Pedro. Putting his heels to Pegasus, Nate joined the middle-aged tracker, who greeted him in Spanish, then gestured helplessly at the ground. This was the rockiest soil yet and there appeared to be no sign whatsoever. Nate stayed in the saddle and moved in a small circle, doubled over so he could search for smudges and other traces of the war party’s passing. Seconds later he saw where a hoof had left the faintest of impressions, and he pointed it out to Pedro, who had to practically touch his nose to the rocky surface to see it.
Pedro glanced up, his expressive features betraying how impressed he was. Rising, he mounted and motioned for Nate to lead the way.
Now they moved much faster. Nate concentrated exclusively on the ground, tracking as would an Indian, noting spoor the average mountain man would miss. Which was understandable since he had been taught by Shakespeare McNair, whose tracking skills were legendary, and by some of the very best trackers in the entire Shoshone nation. Where other white men would see only a blank earthen slate, he saw a pattern of scratches and scrapes that plainly revealed the direction the Apaches had taken.
After a mile Pedro rode back and said something to Francisco that brought Gaona up to ride with them.
Nate hardly noticed, so intent was he on overtaking the
band so he could free the captives. He did deduce that the trail was leading into a narrow notch between two of the mountains, and when he was a few hundred yards away he reined up.
“Is something wrong?” Francisco asked.
“I don’t want to ride into an ambush,” Nate said, pointing.
“It is an ideal spot,” Francisco agreed. He waved an arm to bring the rest of his men forward. “But I see no way to go around. They have planned well.”
“One of us should go on ahead and scout around.”
“It would be suicide. They would kill him on sight.”
“Maybe not. They wouldn’t want to give us any advance warning. They might let a single rider go in and come back out without jumping him just so we’ll think it’s safe.”
“You hope.”
“There’s only one way to find out for sure,” Nate said, bringing Pegasus to a trot.
“Wait, señor!” Francisco cried.
But Nate merely gave a wave of his hand, hefted the Hawken, and rode straight for the mouth of the notch. The defile wasn’t more than twenty yards wide. On the right was a gradual slope dotted with scrub trees. On the left was a steep stone face marred by countless cracks and fissures. The quiet was absolute; not so much as an insect buzzed.
Squaring his shoulders, Nate boldly advanced. The notch was in shadow, which was a welcome relief after he had been roasted by the blistering sun for so long, but it gave him an uneasy feeling. He swore he could feel hostile eyes on him every step of the way. Pegasus began acting skittish, confirming his hunch. Yet although he scoured the adjacent mountains intently, he saw nothing to show there were Apaches lurking in wait.
The notch curved at the middle, angling to the southwest. He stopped and looked back. Francisco and the vaqueros were still visible, but they wouldn’t be once he rounded the curve. If he ran into trouble they wouldn’t see it. He’d be on his own.
Gripping the reins tighter, he kept going. He tried to think like an Apache. If he was one of the band, where would he set up the ambush? Where else but right there? The vaqueros would be hemmed in by the slope and the cliff. And being halfway through the notch, they would have to run a gauntlet of arrows to get to safety at either end.
He scanned the cliff, then the slope. Even his keen eyes failed to detect tracks. Maybe he was wrong, he thought. Maybe the Apaches had gone on through and were miles off. Then he saw the dirt.
Five yards up on the slope to his left was a patch of bare earth bearing tiny lines that ran every which way. The lines were so faint that Pedro would never have spotted them. Clearly they were made by something rubbing back and forth across the patch. Lying a few feet from the spot was the answer: a handful of saxifrage that had been pulled out and used to erase the hoofprint or footprint that would have given the Apaches away.
Feigning a casual attitude, Nate stretched and gazed higher up on the slope. About sixty feet up was a sizeable group of large boulders, some as massive as a cabin, more than enough to conceal a dozen or so mules and horses. And captives.
He could have turned around. He could have left the defile without being harmed since he was right about the Apaches not wanting to alert the vaqueros. But he couldn’t. Not when he knew with every atom of his being that his wife and son and Blue Water Woman and Maria and Juanita and the servants were right up there behind those boulders.
His next act took the Apaches completely by surprise. Call it stupidity. Call it brash recklessness. Call it a supreme act of human bravery. Whatever, Nate suddenly reined sharply to the left and raced right up the slope toward those boulders. He covered a dozen feet before the Apaches realized he knew they were there and guessed his intent.
A burly, swarthy figure popped up seemingly from out of the ground, directly in his path, and drew back a sinew bowstring.
Nate already had the Hawken to his shoulder. He fired before the warrior could, the ball catching the Apache in the chest, dropping him where he stood. Others materialized out of thin air like demonic wraiths from some nether realm. A shaft whizzed past his head. Another clipped his beaver hat.
He saw a powerful brave rise from behind a skimpy bush that wouldn’t have hidden a rabbit. The man lifted a bow. Instantly Nate turned Pegasus ever so slightly, ramming into the Apache. The gelding’s chest caught the warrior flush, sending him flying end over end.
Another arrow nicked his shoulder.
Then he was almost to the boulders, and he looked up to see a tall warrior about to leap from the top of one, a knife clutched in the man’s bronzed right hand. His own right flashed to a flintlock, sweeping the pistol clear as the warrior sprang. In a blur he cocked the hammer and fired, and the Apache’s nose splattered all over the man’s face and the plummeting body missed the gelding by inches.
Below him the notch rocked to a flurry of gunshots. He didn’t dare glance back to see what was going on because yet another Apache had stepped into view around a boulder. This one held a lance and he had it poised to throw. In a twinkling it was streaking at Nate. He ducked low and felt his hat swept from his head.
Then he was beside the warrior and leaning down to slam the flintlock into the man’s face. The Apache’s head snapped back, hitting the side of the boulder, and the man toppled.
“Pa! Pa! We’re here!”
The cry electrified Nate. He raced around the boulder and saw them all: the horses, the mules, the servants, the Gaonas, Blue Water Woman, and those who meant more to him than life itself. The captives all had their wrists bound and were seated with their backs to the boulders, all except young Zach, who had leaped erect to shout and was now resisting the efforts of a sturdy warrior to shove him back down.
At the sound of Pegasus’s hoofs the Apache let go of the boy and whirled, drawing a knife. Nate jumped down, jammed the spent pistol under his belt, and moved to draw his other flintlock. But he was too slow. The guard reached him in three prodigious bounds. Nate barely got the Hawken aloft in time to deflect the blade arcing downward. The force behind the blow knocked him backwards and he nearly lost his balance.
As stoically as if made of granite, the Apache closed, slashing wickedly, a swing that nearly ripped open Nate’s stomach. He swung again, or began to, when suddenly he stumbled forward as if struck from behind.
Nate’s heart leaped when he saw Zach behind the warrior, and he realized the boy had come to his rescue by kicking the Apache in the leg. The warrior coiled to lunge at Zach. Frantically Nate drew his pistol and without thinking shot the Apache in the back of the head.
All the captives were rising. Winona rushed toward him. From down on the slope came constant gunfire mixed with loud yells and fierce war whoops.
For the moment the area at the rear of the boulders was free of Apaches. Nate stepped to his son, his smile the only emotion he could show until they were safely in the clear. He jammed the second pistol under his belt, set down the rifle, and drew his butcher knife. In a thrice he had the boy cut loose, then he faced the others. “Hurry!” he said. “We’ll take these horses and—”
“Pa!” Zach screamed, his wide-eyed gaze going over Nate’s shoulder.
Nate tried to spin. He was halfway around when something smashed into the side of his head, knocking him sideways. The world swam, his knees buckled. He felt his brow hit the ground. Someone—Juanita?— screamed. He heard Zach yelling.
“No! No! Leave my ma be!”
Then he heard something else, a sound that froze his soul but galvanized him to grit his teeth and push up into a crouch. One of the stolen horses was in full flight up the slope, and mounted on it was a brawny Apache working the rope rein with one arm while holding Winona in the other.
Not again! Nate’s mind shrieked. He shoved upright, aware of a sticky sensation where he had been struck, and stumbled toward Pegasus. As he lifted his foot to a stirrup his ears registered the drumming of heavy footfalls behind him. Pivoting, his vision still blurred, he extended the butcher knife.
“It’s us, señor.”
Nate again began to mount, but a small hand touched his.
“Pa? You’re hurt. Don’t go yet.”
“I’ve got to, son,” Nate said, his head throbbing terribly.
“But you’re bleeding bad. You should wait a bit.”
“I have to save her,” Nate said, finally getting his moccasin into the stirrup. He tried pulling himself into the saddle, but his traitorous head swam worse than before. Inadvertently, he groaned. Bitterly frustrated, he shook himself and tensed his legs. The next instant a strong arm looped around his waist and he was pulled away from the Palouse.
“No, my friend,” Francisco said softly. “Your hijo is right. We must see how badly you are hurt before you go anywhere.”
“They took her,” Nate protested. He tried to pry Gaona’s arm loose, but a firm hand gripped his wrist, stopping him. Ignacio was there, sadly shaking his head. Struggling to control his anger, knowing they were only trying to be helpful, Nate let them seat him on a flat rock. His vision abruptly cleared and he saw that the fleeing Apache and Winona had long since disappeared.
Only then did Nate learn another reason the Apaches had used the boulders for concealment. At the base of one was a small spring. A vaquero knelt there, soaking a strip of cotton he had torn from his own shirt. He gave it to Maria Gaona, who quickly wiped the blood off Nate’s head.
“You have quite a gash,” Señor Francisco said.
A sharp pang lanced Nate’s skull and he winced. “It’s nothing,” he fibbed. “I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”
“You took a great risk in what you did.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Nate replied. He felt Maria’s slender fingers gently probing the wound. “But I sure am glad you showed up when you did.”
“I was concerned for your safety. We came at a gallop the moment you vanished around the curve,” Francisco stated. “By flushing the Apaches as you did, your shots forewarned us and gave us a fighting chance. Thankfully, we were able to drive them off.” He shifted and stared to the southwest. “I am only sorry that our victory was not complete. If your wife was here all would be well.”
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 25