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

by Robbins, David

  Winona put her cheek on his back and kept it there for the longest while. She was strangely quiet, perhaps melancholy over being forced yet again to flee for their lives.

  As the sun steadily climbed so did the temperature. It would be another unseasonably hot day, taxing the Palouse’s strength even further. Nate wished he could stop every so often so the gelding wouldn’t bake. Now and then he did pause for a couple of minutes, but it wasn’t enough. Pegasus became caked thick with sweat.

  When the blazing orb dominating the heavens was directly overhead, he halted in the shade of a cliff to give the Palouse an extended rest, whether it was wise or not. There was no water, no grass handy to rub the animal down. All he could do was loosen the saddle and stroke its neck.

  “We must find more water soon,” Winona remarked.

  “First we have to shake these Apaches off our trail,” Nate said. “Until then we can’t take the time to hunt for water.” He scanned the land they had just covered, but there was no trace of the warriors—yet.

  “We could give them a taste of their own medicine and set up an ambush,” Winona proposed.

  “No.”

  “Give me a pistol, husband. Two of them will be dead before they know what is happening. The last will be easy to kill.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? The idea is a good one.”

  Nate looked at her. “It’s too dangerous. We’d have to let them get too close. If they suspect what we’re up to, if something gives us away, they’ll take cover and we’ll be in for the fight of our lives.”

  “The real truth is that you are afraid harm will come to me.”

  Her blunt assertion caught him flat-footed. Nate stroked Pegasus a few times before saying, “Can you blame me? I nearly lost you once on this trip of ours, and I’m not about to risk losing you again.”

  “We must make a stand eventually,” Winona said. “We’ll see. If I become convinced we can’t outrun them, then we’ll pick our spot and fight. Until that time, we keep going.”

  “As you wish, husband,” Winona responded, although she did not sound pleased.

  For half an hour Nate stayed there in the shade, giving Pegasus a chance to cool down and recover somewhat. Finally he climbed up and extended his arm to Winona. In minutes they were riding hard to the northeast.

  On a rim of caprock that afforded a panoramic view for miles in all directions, Nate reined up. A frown creased his mouth when he spied the three Apaches nearing the spot where they had stopped to rest. “Damn,” he muttered.

  “Do we ambush them now?”

  “No,” he said testily.

  “As you wish.”

  A bench took them to a lone peak. Once past the mountain they found themselves in a twisting series of canyons and draws. Far ahead appeared a divide at the center of which was a slender gap.

  Nate was doing some serious pondering. Deep down he knew his wife was right; the only way they were going to shake the Apaches was by killing them. And if that gap should be what he thought it was—a pass to the other side of the divide—it might be just the place to hunker down and spring their trap.

  He had to search some to find a relatively easy way to the top. In most spots the slopes were much too steep for the fatigued gelding. By using good judgment and climbing carefully he got them to the crown of the divide. Stopping, he twisted and saw the Apaches far below. The warriors had seen them and were coming on fast.

  Nate entered the gap, which was no more than forty feet wide and flanked by sheer stone walls impossible for a human being to scale. Three-quarters of the way through he found a crack large enough to accommodate a single person in the left-hand wall. Above the crack was a projecting ledge more than wide enough for someone to lie on. Here he halted.

  “Now do we ambush them?” Winona asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As you wish,” she said impishly.

  He rode on to the opposite end of the gap to confirm it was indeed a pass. From a spacious shelf he gazed down on a sprawling vista of spectacular mountainous landscape. Descending would pose no problem thanks to a game trail. “Here’s where we leave Pegasus,” he said.

  Ground-hitching the gelding, they hurried back to the crack. Nate glanced up at the ledge, then stepped close to the wall, set the rifle down, and cupped his brawny hands. “Up you go.”

  Winona hesitated. “How will you get up there?”

  “I won’t. I’m hiding in the crack.”

  “Down here you will be at their mercy. Why expose yourself when there is enough room on the ledge for two people?”

  “Now who’s afraid?” Nate couldn’t resist asking, and motioned with his hands. “Come on. You’re wasting time. They’ll be here soon.”

  Her displeasure transparent, Winona put her right foot in his upturned palms, tensed her legs, and surged upward when he gave her a boost. She easily caught the edge of the ledge and successfully pulled herself onto it. Turning, she lowered her hand.

  “Take these,” Nate said, holding up both the Hawken and one of the flintlocks.

  Winona took only the rifle.

  “This too,” Nate prompted, wagging the pistol.

  “You keep it. You will need it more than I will.”

  “I’ll still have one flintlock, my knife, and my tomahawk. Take it. Please.”

  Winona made no answer. Instead, she positioned herself on the ledge so that she couldn’t be observed from below.

  “Contrary female,” Nate muttered as he drew his other pistol. Easing into the crack as far as he could go, he held the guns at his sides and cocked both hammers. He was concealed well enough that a rider passing by would be unable to see him until the man was directly abreast of the crack.

  Now came the hard part, waiting for the Apaches to appear and hoping against hope the warriors would think the two of them had gone all the way through the gap. The rocky ground helped since their footprints wouldn’t show. Only Pegasus had left even partial tracks, which might deceive the Apaches.

  Might, Nate reflected bitterly. He was realistic enough to fully appreciate that the Apaches hadn’t garnered their justly deserved reputations as outstanding fighting men by foolishly riding into enemy traps. Another cause for worry was that some Apaches had undoubtedly developed the same uncanny sense of detecting impending danger he’d seen exhibited by several of his Shoshone friends and others. Men who lived in the world often acquired instincts the equal of the savage beasts with which they contended for mastery of the land, and snaring such men was often as hard to do as snaring a panther.

  Beads of sweat formed on his brow and his palms felt clammy. No air got into the crack, so although the floor of the gap was in near constant shade it was still stifling in the confined space. Repeatedly he shifted the bulk of his weight from one foot to the other.

  His thoughts strayed. Were Zach and Blue Water Woman back safe and sound at the hacienda by now, or had Francisco run into more Apaches along the way? What about Shakespeare? Did the doctor arrive in time to put the mountain man on the mend? And then there was Samson. The mangy mongrel had been part of the family for years. Zach would be devastated if it wasn’t found.

  Suddenly the awful quiet was broken by the sharp crack of a heavy hoof on a stone.

  Nate broke out in gooseflesh. He lightly touched his fingers to the triggers of both pistols and girded himself for the fight. Speed would be the deciding factor. If things went as he planned, between Winona’s rifle and his two flintlocks they would dispatch all three warriors with a single shot apiece. The Apaches would have no time to react.

  The rattling of hoofs grew louder and louder. A horse snorted, perhaps having caught the Palouse’s lingering scent.

  Nate, through sheer will, calmed his jittery nerves. The Apaches were close, so close he heard words spoken softly in their tongue. Then there was a grunt, a single harsh exclamation, and total silence. The trio had stopped! he realized, his eyes glued to the section of the gap he could see. Why? Had they spotte
d Winona? Or were they so adept at reading sign that they knew he was in the crack? Dreadful uncertainty gnawed at him like a rat through cheese. He could barely stand the suspense.

  Then he heard a peculiar sound, a sort of sibilant hissing not unlike the noise made by steam escaping from a kettle. Cocking his head, he tried to identify what it could be. When he did, he nearly laughed aloud.

  Soon the sound stopped, and the Apache must have remounted because the horses started forward.

  Now Nate saw the brown nose of the foremost mount come into view. The head was next. Taking a breath, he took two bounds, bursting from the crack with his arms sweeping up even as from above him the Hawken thundered and one of the warriors was smashed to the ground by an invisible fist. He took a hasty bead on a second Apache and fired, but at the instant he squeezed the trigger the warrior began to lift a bow and his shot struck the man’s arm, not the chest as he’d intended. The Apache jerked at the impact but didn’t go down.

  Venting a whoop in rage, the third warrior prodded his horse into a run and bore down on Nate with a war club raised on high.

  Nate shifted and took aim, confident he would drop the man, and equally sure that if by some fluke he didn’t, Winona would do the job. Then a thought hit him with the force of a bullet and made him blink in surprise. He’d forgotten to give Winona extra black powder and ammunition! Her rifle was now useless!

  The oversight so distracted him that the onrushing Apache was almost upon him before he squeezed off his shot. A red hole appeared on the warrior’s cheek and the man went down in a whirl of flying limbs. Nate had to leap out of the way of the Apache’s charging horse, and he didn’t entirely succeed. The animal clipped his left shoulder as it pounded past, sending him to his knees, and in the process jarring his left hand so badly that his unused flintlock went sailing.

  “Husband!” Winona yelled.

  He looked up to find the wounded Apache on the attack, galloping straight at him, hatred etching the warrior’s swarthy face, a face he now recognized as being that of the man who had abducted his wife, none other than the Apache name Naiche. Releasing his spent pistol, Nate whipped his knife from its beaded sheath and pushed to his feet.

  Naiche had let his bow fall. He appeared unfazed by his wound as, with both arms flailing, he tried to bowl Nate over. At the last instant Nate jumped out of the animal’s path, then whirled to meet the next rush. Exhibiting superb horsemanship, Naiche wheeled his mount on the head of a pin and tried once again.

  Nate frantically backed away, and felt his left heel bump an object lying on the ground. He tripped, falling backwards, and rather than fight gravity and be a sitting duck for Naiche he went with the fall, landing hard on his shoulder blades but quickly rolling to the right out of harm’s way. Driving hoofs flashed on by.

  Rising again, he saw that he’d tripped over the body of the first warrior he’d shot. Ten feet away lay one of the flintlocks, but was it the one he had fired or the other one? He started toward the gun, then stopped. Naiche was swooping down on him like a great painted bird of prey, trying to run him over. He feinted to the right, taking only two swift steps before reversing direction and darting to the left. His ruse worked. Naiche had angled his mount to compensate for the move to the right and was unable to swing it back before going past.

  Swiftly Nate ran to the flintlock, grabbed it, and pointed the weapon at the Apache. Naiche didn’t seem to care. Snarling, the warrior closed for the fourth time. Nate smiled in hopeful triumph as he cocked the pistol, but his expression was transformed into one of frustration when the hammer made a loud click and the flintlock didn’t fire.

  Naiche drew a large knife. He leaned down and lunged, lancing the blade at Nate’s head, and Nate ducked down, narrowly evading the blow. Spinning, Nate did the unexpected. Instead of tiring himself trying to avoid the horse, he went on the offensive, dashing after the animal and leaping as Naiche, unaware of the bold gambit, was about to turn his mount for one more charge.

  Nate’s left arm closed around the Apache’s waist and with his other he attempted to drive the knife into Naiche’s side as the two of them began to fall. Somehow, Naiche blocked the swing. They landed next to each other, but promptly shoved apart and stood, each still holding his weapon.

  For a moment they stood stock still, taking one another’s measure. The Apache’s eyes burned with inner fire as he contemptuously regarded Nate.

  For Nate’s part, he was noticing Naiche’s exceptionally muscular build and the many scars on the warrior’s body that bore eloquent testimony to the man’s lighting prowess. Naiche was shorter but broader across the shoulders and hips, resembling a young grizzly in build.

  The Apache struck with the speed of a striking rattler, his right arm flicking out at Nate’s throat. Nate retreated a stride and countered with a slash at the warrior’s stomach, but Naiche stepped to the left. Then they slowly circled, both seeking an opening.

  Nate thrust out at chest height. The moment his arm was fully extended he arced the knife down lower, trying to slice open the Apache’s stomach. Naiche twisted and the blade missed him by a fraction. Before Nate could regain his balance, the warrior lashed out, the blade of his knife striking the blade of Nate’s so hard that Nate’s arm was battered aside.

  For a second Nate was wide open and Naiche promptly pounced, his left hand clamping on Nate’s throat as his left knee slammed into Nate’s groin. Together they went down, the Apache on top. Nate saw the tip of the warrior’s knife sweeping at his face and he desperately wrenched his head aside. The blade nicked his ear, drawing blood.

  Instantly Naiche raised the knife for another try. Nate bucked, striving to unseat his foe, but Naiche’s knees pinned him in place. His own blade bit into the Apache’s knife arm, not deep but inflicting enough pain to cause Naiche to jump up and take a bound to the right, out of range.

  Nate rolled to the left, away from the warrior, and had started to rise when a foot caught him in the ribs, doubling him over. A second blow to the head knocked him flat. Dazed, he shifted, trying to stand, and glimpsed Naiche as the warrior leaped onto his back, pinning him again. He felt his hair gripped by iron fingers, and winced as his head was brutally bent backwards, exposing his throat to the Apache’s blade.

  Naiche gave a curt laugh that sounded more like a bark and went for the kill.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nate stiffened as the terrifying realization that in another few seconds he was going to die coursed through him. He was totally at the Apache’s mercy. There was nothing he could do to forestall the inevitable, but he refused to submit meekly. He reached up and tried to grasp the hand holding his hair to pry it loose even as he heaved his body upward with all the power in his legs and thighs.

  Neither move accomplished a thing. His arm was swatted aside as casually as he would swat a fly, and the weight of the warrior combined with his own dazed state to prevent him from bucking Naiche off.

  He struggled to pull his head down, to tuck his chin against his neck so the Apache would be unable to slit his throat from ear to ear, but couldn’t. At any instant he expected to feel the cold steel slice into his soft flesh.

  Then Nate heard a loud thump and the grip on his hair slackened. Naiche unaccountably sagged to one side. Seizing the advantage while it lasted, Nate strained with all his might and threw the Apache off him. In the blink of an eye he had scrambled to his knees and turned to face his enemy.

  Naiche was also on his knees and shaking his head to clear it. In the middle of his forehead was a nasty gash several inches long from which blood flowed down over his nose. The warrior still held his knife, but loosely in his lap.

  For tense seconds neither of them moved as they both mustered their reserve of stamina. At first Nate didn’t understand what had saved him, not until he saw his Hawken lying on the ground a foot away. He didn’t need to look up at the ledge to know the answer. Winona had hurled the rifle at the Apache just as the warrior was on the verge of stabbing him, an
d the heavy gun had stunned Naiche.

  “Behind you!” she suddenly shouted.

  Nate rose unsteadily into a crouch and twisted. A few yards off was one of his flintlocks. But was it the one he had already fired or the loaded pistol? He’d dropped the useless one again and had no idea whether this was it. The swirling fight had jumbled his sense of direction so badly that he’d had no idea they were under the ledge until just now.

  Naiche also stood, his baleful eyes virtual slits as he uttered a few stern words in the Apache tongue.

  A threat, Nate figured, or a vow to kill him no matter what. He looked at the warrior, then at the flintlock, gauging whether he could reach the pistol before the Apache reached him. Since there was only one way to find out, and since any delay would give Naiche time to recover, he took a swift step and dived with his left hand outstretched. Behind him footsteps pounded and something stung his left leg.

  Nate landed with a jarring thud on his stomach. His hand closed on the pistol and he whipped around to take aim. But Naiche was already on him, straddling his legs, and the Apache knocked the gun to one side. He saw the warrior tense to stab downward, and in that instant when Naiche was concentrating on the gun and Naiche’s torso was unprotected, Nate streaked his right hand up and in, sinking his blade to the hilt in Naiche’s stomach. Without pause he bunched his shoulders, then drove the knife to the right and the left, ripping the Apache’s abdomen wide open.

  Naiche staggered backwards, his features ashen, and pressed a hand to his intestines as they spilled out of the rupture. He blinked, looked at Nate, and said something. Then his legs gave out as all his strength drained from him like water from a sieve. He lifted his face to the sky, voiced a piercing cry, and pitched over.

  Nate had to scramble to get out of the way of the falling body. He sat up, staring at Naiche’s blank eyes. A spreading pool of blood and foul intestinal juices was forming under the warrior and rapidly spreading outward. Abruptly nauseous, Nate got to his feet and shuffled to one side.