Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6)

by Robbins, David

  Much to his amazement, he eventually worked his way around to where he had concealed Pegasus without incident. Mounting, he sat and pondered his next move. It would be wise, he reasoned, to seek high ground so he could spy on the camp come first light. Reining to the right, he had started to head for a rise when to the southwest he heard an almost inaudible sound that resembled for all the world the striking of a hoof against a rock.

  Nate drew rein and gazed into the limitless gloom. A troubling thought crept into his mind, a thought that blossomed into a certainty when the sound was repeated seconds later. Wheeling Pegasus, he galloped toward the Apache camp heedless of the noise he was making. If he was wrong he’d pay the price with his life. But if he was right—he had to know.

  His hunch proved accurate. The Apaches were gone. Winona was gone. The warriors had taken their wounded or dead and lit out. Stunned, he stared at the remains of their fire and tried to make sense of their flight. Why would they run off when they outnumbered him? The most likely answer made him want to kick himself in the britches for not putting himself in their place and figuring out their next move in advance.

  The Apaches had had no way of knowing how many enemies they faced. Since to their way of thinking no solitary white man would dare invade their mountain sanctuary, they must have figured there might be a large force closing in. Prudently, they had hastily departed with their captive.

  Nate should have expected such behavior. Apaches, it was claimed, never attacked a larger opposing force unless they could do so from ambush with scant risk to themselves. They were raiders, first and foremost, men who preferred to strike fast and hard and then get out again before a counterattack could be launched. To the Apache way of thinking, a man who stole one horse without being caught or who killed an enemy without being wounded in return was a far better warrior than a man who stole twenty horses but who had to elude pursuers to do it or a man who killed five enemies but was wounded in the process.

  Now he was stuck there until daylight. Tracking at night was next to impossible, and even if he could overtake them he didn’t care to do so in the dark. Swinging down, he stripped off his saddle and saddle blanket and made himself comfortable. He was too overwrought to sleep but he had to try to sleep a little, if only so he’d be fully alert when he did catch up to them.

  And catch up he would. To have been so close to Winona, to have touched her soft shoulder and gazed into her lovely, troubled eyes, had fanned the flames of love in his soul to a fever pitch. She was counting on him and he had let her down. But he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. The next time he would succeed!

  ~*~

  His inner clock woke him when the eastern horizon was tinged with a pale pink glow. He sat straight up, surprised he had dozed off in the wee hours of the morning. The sleep had not done him much to relieve his fatigue, and his limbs felt sluggish as he stood and saddled the gelding. Swinging up, he rode in a southwesterly direction.

  Now that the Apaches knew they were being followed they were doing their utmost to cover their sign. He went over a hundred yards before he found a partial hoofprint. Later on he found another. If not for the stolen horse, he mused, he wouldn’t have a clue as to which way to go.

  After the sun rose and he could see clearly he began to find small drops of blood here and there, which proved at least one of the Apaches was badly wounded. He suspected that he’d killed the warrior he’d shot with the Hawken, but he could be wrong.

  His main worry was an ambush. One or two or all of the band might hole up somewhere until he came along and finish him off. Every tree, every boulder, every ravine might conceal a foe. His gut worked itself into a tight knot before he had gone a mile.

  The morning dragged past. At noon it was blazing hot, and sweat caked his skin from head to toe. Shortly thereafter he came on the spring.

  This was the largest so far, nestled in the shade of a bluff and ringed by grass. Although he burned with a keen desire to press on after Winona, common sense dictated he stop and rest, if not for himself then for the Palouse. Wearily dismounting, he again removed the saddle, then allowed the gelding to drink. Lying down, he touched his own lips to the cool water and drank greedily.

  After their thirst was quenched he gave Pegasus a rubdown using handfuls of grass. Then he let the horse graze while he rested in the shade, occasionally dipping his hand into the pool to sprinkle water on his face and neck.

  From the sign, he gathered that the Apaches had visited the spring at daybreak, but had stayed only a short while before hurrying on. The direction of their travel showed they were continuing deeper into the mountains.

  He tried not to dwell on the unnerving fact that he was alone in the middle of a harsh land teeming with roving bands of savage Apaches. Should he be slain, no one would ever know exactly where or how he had met his Maker. Winona might hear of his death from a bragging warrior, but Shakespeare and Francisco would be left to wonder and reflect on the widely acknowledged futility of going against the dreaded Apaches on their own terms.

  Presently he had Pegasus saddled and rode on. High peaks reared on all sides like the foreboding towers of a medieval fortress. The many boulders and rocky ground reflected the heat back at him, presenting the illusion he was riding through an enormous stone oven. Vegetation was sparse.

  The tracks led him on a winding course through gorges and along dry washes, over ridges and around barren peaks. Several times he discovered clear hoofprints, and from the stride of the stolen horse, from the way it was dragging its hoofs now and then, he knew the animal was greatly fatigued. With ample cause, he decided. Its rest last night had been interrupted, and it had been unable to get a decent drink since the day before. Bearing Winona only added to its misery. How long, he wondered, could it hold out?

  Nate thought of little Zach and how the boy would fare if a cruel fate made him an orphan. Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman would look after the child, Nate was sure. And under their guidance Zach would grow up to be someone his parents would be proud of. But Nate preferred to see Zach mature with his own eyes. There was no substitute for the first-hand joys of parenthood except the joys of marriage itself.

  Mid-afternoon found him a thousand feet higher than he had been at the spring. The Apaches were steadily climbing. To where? Ahead lay massive ramparts shrouded in mystery.

  He’d hoped to overtake the band before nightfall, which now appeared unlikely. Ceaselessly he scoured vantage points from which the Apaches might spy on him, but he saw nothing to show any were. Which proved nothing, since they were virtual ghosts when they wanted to be. They might know he was still after them; they might not. Regardless, he wasn’t giving up.

  By late afternoon a feeble but welcome cool breeze blew in from the northwest. He scaled a steep earthen slope and came out on top of a tableland covered with grass and dotted with trees, a virtual island in the midst of a sea of arid terrain, as unexpected as it was a joy to find. More so, for when he halted and scanned this oasis he spied a fair-sized lake off in the distance, its tranquil surface shimmering with the reflected radiance of the sun.

  Were the Apaches here? he asked himself. The tableland was an ideal spot to stop for the night. For that matter, an Apache village might be situated close by. There was ample water for a large number of people, there was bound to be abundant game, and the isolated location made random discovery by outsiders unlikely. The place was perfect.

  He must get under cover. Clucking the Palouse into motion, he rode to a stand of aspens, then slid down. His backside was sore, his spine stiff from all the time he’d spent in the saddle. He stretched to remove the kinks, tied the reins to a slender tree, and walked to the edge of the stand for another look-see.

  To the north lay undisturbed wilderness. To the west, though, figures appeared, moving around the lakeshore. There were at least a dozen and they were all on foot.

  Suddenly he detected movement much, much closer. He lowered his eyes to the southwest and inadvertently gasped
on seeing a stout Apache approaching at a dogtrot. Instantly he ducked low, afraid he had been seen.

  Behind the first warrior came others. Two, four, five, seven all told, strung out in single file as was Indian custom when a war party was on the prowl.

  Nate huddled behind a screen of saplings and cocked the Hawken. Although none of the Apaches had made a sound, he was sure they’d spotted him. Why else were they heading directly toward the stand?

  Chapter Eleven

  Nate hesitated, torn between an urge to fight and an impulse to flee. He might be able to shoot three of the warriors before the group reached him, but the rest would swiftly overwhelm him. It was smarter in his estimation to make a run for it simply because Winona’s future depended on his staying alive.

  He had started to back away from the saplings when a remarkable thing happened; the Apaches veered to his left to bypass the stand entirely. A smile spread over his face as it dawned on him that they had no idea he was there. He heard them talking among themselves as they went by on the far side of the stand.

  What if Pegasus whinnied? The anxious thought brought him to his feet and he quickly made his way to the Palouse’s side. He need not have worried. The tired horse was standing quietly, dozing. Breathing a bit easier, he moved next to the east edge of the aspens. From this vantage point he could see the Apaches clearly as they trotted to the rim of the tableland and there stopped.

  As he studied their features he was stunned to recognize one of them as a warrior who had been a member of the small band he had tangled with. He knew it was the same man from the green headband the man wore, which was the only green one he had seen on an Apache thus far.

  He abruptly realized what they were up to, and gave inward thanks he’d reached the hidden oasis when he had. His earlier assumption that there was a village nearby must be correct. The small band had hastened there after the fight, and now one of them was leading reinforcements back to find him and kill him or capture him for later torture.

  The seven warriors were standing less than twenty yards from the spot where he had come over the rim. If, for whatever reason, they went north instead of going down the earthen slope, they were bound to see Pegasus’s hoofprints and they’d know their quarry was much closer than they believed.

  Nate watched expectantly until, at a gesture from the warrior with the green headband, the entire group vanished over the rim. He sat back, elated. Then a jarring insight sobered him. If those Apaches made straight for the site of the fight, they might not see the tracks he’d left as he’d made his way to the tableland. But if they used the very same route he’d used, they’d find the tracks in no time and immediately turn around to come after him.

  What should he do? Standing, he hurried to Pegasus, untied the reins, and swung up. He couldn’t afford to take chances. Time was now more crucial than ever before. Finding and freeing Winona must be done rapidly.

  He swung to the south, and stuck close to the ragged rim on the assumption he ran less risk of encountering Apaches there than in the midst of their verdant Garden of Eden. In this manner he covered over a mile.

  Then he heard someone singing.

  Nate instantly stopped and peered through the fir trees in the direction from which the merry sound came. Beyond the firs was a meadow. Crossing it were four young Apache women, all carrying baskets. They walked to the east, to a stand of bushes, where two of them knelt and commenced digging at the roots.

  These were the first Apache women Nate had ever beheld, and he scrutinized them with interest. They were quite beautiful, what with their raven hair, smooth features, and decorated buckskin dresses. Being in their twenties, they had yet to acquire the many wrinkles that served as badges of distinction for older Indian women who lived hard but rewarding lives in devotion to their families.

  They chatted gaily as they worked, feeling perfectly safe in their mountain retreat. All four were soon digging, and when their baskets were full of roots they rose and hiked to the northwest.

  Nate waited until they were out of sight. Dismounting, he looped the reins around a low limb, gripped the Hawken in his left hand, and padded after the four women. He caught up with them in seconds, but kept far enough back that his chances of being spotted were remote. The women passed through a tract of trees, and emerged on the south shore of the sparkling lake.

  Now Nate laid eyes on a sight no other white man had ever observed and lived to tell about. Spread out before him was a large Apache village, which in one respect was unlike any Indian village with which he was familiar. The lodges were totally different from those of the Shoshones. In fact, they were totally different from those of all the tribes living on the plains. Instead of dwellings made from buffalo hides, the Apaches lived in structures known as wickiups. Bowl-shaped, they were fashioned from slender poles and then covered with grass and brush.

  There were forty wickiups along the lakeshore. Among them played laughing, happy children. Women were engaged in a variety of tasks, everything from tanning hides to constructing baskets. The warriors sat around talking, sharpening knives, making bowstrings, or gambling.

  Nate counted twenty-seven men. The rest must be either out hunting or on raids. He scoured the village from one end to the other, but saw no sign of Winona. But he did spy the stolen horse, tethered beside a wickiup close to the lake. He settled down on his stomach and made himself comfortable.

  Soon, with the golden sun perched above the western horizon, the women busied themselves preparing the evening meal. Cook fires were started. The children were called from their play, and the men went to their respective wickiups to await their food.

  At last Nate saw Winona. The warrior who had abducted her emerged from the wickiup next to the stolen horse, turned, and motioned angrily. From inside came Winona, who was grabbed by the arm and rudely shoved to the ground. Through sign language the Apache ordered her to fix his meal. Then he stalked off to a nearby wickiup and began talking with another warrior.

  As excited as Nate felt at seeing his beloved again, he was more worried about her welfare. That she had angered her captor was obvious. Why, he could guess. She would not submit meekly to being mistreated. Winona was a proud, strong-willed woman whose self-confidence was boundless. And knowing her as well as he did, he knew she would rather die than let herself be subjected to the ultimate indignity.

  Her captor must be finding that out for himself. What would the man do next? Nate wondered. If the warrior was a fool he would try to force himself on her and risk having his eyes scratched out. Even if the man succeeded, he had to realize that at some point in the future, when least expected, he would wake up to find a knife buried in his throat.

  Perhaps her captor was wiser than that. Perhaps he would take his time, try to seduce her gradually. If she eventually felt all hope of being rescued or escaping was lost, she might give in, if she didn’t take her own life first.

  A raging hatred burned in Nate’s breast for the one who had taken her. He wanted to get his hands around the bastard’s neck and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until the Apache’s tongue protruded and the man’s face became as blue as that lake yonder.

  Nate watched Winona cook the meal. Her captor returned, sat cross-legged, and ate without speaking. She took a small bowl and sat down several yards away, deliberately turning her back to him, which sparked an angry stare.

  Keep it up! Nate wanted to shout, feeling a tight knot form in his throat. Swallowing hard, he scoured the entire village again, seeking evidence of dogs. The Shoshones and other tribes were partial to relying on dogs to guard their villages at night, so it was logical to expect the Apaches to do the same. Oddly enough, he didn’t see a single one. Then he remembered being told by Shakespeare that the Apaches often ate dogs when other game was scarce, just like they ate horses and mules.

  His stomach growled, reminding him of his own famished state. Steeling himself, he shut food from his mind and impatiently waited for the Apaches to retire. They seemed to take forever
doing so. Once their meal was concluded, the women cleaned up while the men socialized. Parties of warriors gathered around various fires to discuss matters of importance.

  As he lay there, an unusual and enlightening thought occurred to Nate. For all their reputed ferociousness, the Apaches were much like every other Indian tribe. The men were born warriors, bred through countless generations to excel at warfare and raiding, and while they didn’t count coup as did the tribes on the plains and those inhabiting the northern Rockies, they did take immense pride in their fighting ability. The women, like Indian women everywhere, lived what at first glance might appear to be lives of sheer drudgery, toiling from dawn to dusk at all the tasks necessary to feed and clothe their families, but they did so out of a sense of loving service, not because they were forced to. And the children were exactly the same as all carefree children everywhere, playing at the activities they saw the adults doing and hoping one day to be respected members of their people.

  Viewing the Apaches as just another tribe gave him a whole new perspective. Yes, they were to be feared, but no more so than the Blackfeet or the Utes. Yes, the men were skilled warriors, but no more so in their way than the Shoshones or the Cheyennes or the Sioux were in theirs. The Apaches had adapted to the harsh land in which they lived just as the tribes living on the plains had adapted to the conditions there. Apaches were flesh and blood. They could be killed. They could be outfoxed. And he was going to prove it by freeing his wife from their clutches, by rescuing her from their very midst.

  By the positions of the constellations the hour was nearly midnight when the last of the warriors turned in. The village lay serene under the myriad of shimmering stars. From the northwest came a strong wind, rustling the high grass and the leaves of the trees. Small waves rippled the surface of the lake.

  Nate could wait no longer. Rising into a crouch, he stalked closer, his ears and eyes straining to their limits. From some of the dwellings came muffled snoring. Otherwise, all was as still as a cemetery. Near the first wickiups he paused and nervously licked his lips. Some of the entrances were covered with hide flaps or crude lattice works, others weren’t. Since he had no way of knowing if any of the Apaches were awake, he had to be careful not to walk past any doorways. A single warning shout would bring them all out like angry bees stirred from their hive.