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

by Robbins, David

  “Husband?” Winona said softly.

  Turning, he met her anxious gaze. “I’m fine,” he said softly, his voice oddly hoarse.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  That he was. In several places. But none of the wounds were life-threatening. “They don’t hurt much,” he mumbled, and inhaled deeply. “I’ll be all right in no time.”

  “Help me down.”

  He wiped his knife clean on Naiche’s leg first and stuck the blade back in its sheath. Moving closer to the rock wall, he positioned himself so that his shoulders were directly under the edge of the ledge. “Lower away,” he prompted, lifting his hands overhead. She dangled her legs and he caught them and braced her feet on his shoulders. Then, ever so carefully, she climbed down using him as a ladder. Once her feet were on the ground she embraced him and locked her lips on his and for the longest time there was no sound or movement in the gap.

  Winona went for Pegasus while Nate reclaimed his weapons and reloaded his guns. A close examination showed the Hawken to be intact. He sat down, his back to the wall, and gratefully let Winona clean and dress his wounds. As she closed the parfleche and began to stand, he gently took hold of her wrist and said in his best Shoshone, “You are pressed to my heart forever.”

  She smiled and responded, “And you to mine.”

  Two of the Apache mounts had run off. Nate mounted Pegasus and easily caught the third one, which Winona then climbed on. Together they rode out the far end of the gap into bright sunshine and a warm breeze that Nate found refreshing. He surveyed the beautiful but uncompromising land below and nodded, glad to be alive.

  For the remainder of the day they pushed on toward the Gaona rancho. Twice they came on Apache sign, but the tracks were days old. Evening saw them camped beside a trickle of a stream that had satisfied their thirst and renewed their vigor.

  Nate listened to their small crackling fire and held Winona tight as he stared at the stars filling the wide expanse of sky. He thought about the nature of love, and how men and women would do anything, including putting their own lives at risk, to save a loved one. Self-sacrifice was the cornerstone of a genuine commitment between two people, which explained why married men and women who always put their individual selfish interests first always had the most miserable marriages. His own parents, particularly his father, had been that way, and their family had suffered as a consequence.

  Winona mumbled something and pressed her face to his neck. Nate smiled, kissed the crown of her head, and closed his eyes. If all went well they would be back at Gaona’s place within two days. He could hardly wait to see Zach, Shakespeare, and Blue Water Woman again. Provided, of course, they were all still alive.

  ~*~

  Before dawn Nate was up and saddling Pegasus. He’d had to tie the Apache horse to prevent it from running off during the night, and now the animal acted up, balking when he led it to Winona and shying away when she tried to mount. Afraid it might try to throw her, he climbed on to see if it would buck. The animal looked back at him as if wishing it could toss him clear to the moon, but it gave him no further trouble. Satisfied that it was safe for her to use, he slid down and let Winona climb up. Then he stepped to Pegasus and did the same.

  This day was cooler and they made good time. At midday they stopped in a tract of woodland to rest for half an hour. Not until mid-afternoon did they come on a spring, where once again they stopped to give their horses a breather.

  Nate took a chance and shot a rabbit that evening for their supper. While Winona skinned and butchered it, he prowled around their camp, satisfying himself there were no Apaches anywhere in their vicinity. The aroma from the stew Winona was preparing, which would be his first real meal in days, made his mouth water and his stomach growl like a riled wolverine.

  He ate with relish, savoring every sip, slowly chewing every morsel. Halfway through he saw Winona watching him in amusement. “It’s been a while,” he said.

  “It has,” she agreed.

  Nate noticed she had hardly touched her stew and mentioned as much.

  “I was not talking about food, husband.”

  “Oh.”

  The smile he wore the next morning rivaled the sun for brightness. This time the Apache horse was as gentle as a lamb. Toward ten in the morning, as they came to the top of a bench, he spied a thin column of smoke in the distance.

  “More Apaches?” Winona wondered.

  “Let’s go see,” Nate proposed.

  From a rise they looked down on a tranquil scene. Three small wagons laden with bags of grain were parked under trees at the side of a rutted track. Four men dressed in the white shirts and pants of New Mexican farmers were lounging in the shade while two others worked at repairing a broken wheel.

  All six stood and turned as Nate and Winona approached. He reined up, glanced at the dozing oxen hooked up to the wagons, and said, “Buenos dios.”

  A lean farmer beamed and launched into a short speech in Spanish. The only phrase Nate understood was “con mucho gusto” which he knew to mean “with much pleasure.” He racked his brain, trying to recall the words needed to explain he couldn’t speak their language worth a hoot, when Winona spoke up and in short sentences answered the farmer. The skinny man then went on again at length.

  “If we follow this road it will bring us to within a mile of the Gaona hacienda before nightfall,” she translated.

  Nate saw some of the farmers were smirking at him. “Gracias,” he said, and wheeled Pegasus. A few of them nodded and waved.

  “Is something wrong?” Winona asked as they departed.

  “No.”

  “Then why do you look as if you just swallowed a toad?”

  “Sometimes I just can’t understand why a brilliant woman like you married a dunderhead like me.”

  “I took pity on you,” Winona joked, and laughed heartily.

  True to the farmer’s prediction, twilight bathed the countryside when they came into sight of the familiar buildings. Immediately they broke into a gallop. Several vaqueros were tending stock nearby, and while two of the hands came to meet them the third raced like the wind for the hacienda.

  By the time Nate reined up in front of the house, Francisco and his family and Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman were all there, waiting. McNair wore clean bandages that evinced a professional touch. He grinned in delight and remarked, “About time you two got back. We were beginning to think you’d decided to pay Mexico City a visit.”

  Nate swung down and shook his mentor’s hand. Then he looked around and asked, “Where’s Zach?” The faces of all there clouded and Nate felt his pulse quicken. “Where’s Zach?” he repeated urgently.

  Francisco was the one who answered. “I am sorry, señor. It is all my fault.”

  “What is?” Winona inquired anxiously, her hand slipping into Nate’s.

  “Whoa there,” Shakespeare said. “It’s not what you think. You’ll find your young’un out back under that tall tree with the fork at the top. We figured you’d want the honor of letting him know you’re back safe and sound.”

  Without another word Nate hurried around the house, Winona at his side. They both stopped on seeing Zach on his knees next to a mound of recently dug earth. “Oh, no,” Winona whispered.

  Nate bowed his head for a moment, then advanced quietly. They were close enough to touch their son before Zach heard their footsteps and turned.

  “Pa! Ma!” the boy cried, and threw himself into their arms. He broke into racking sobs, his small frame trembling, and clung to them as if his life depended on it.

  “We’re sorry,” Nate said. “So sorry.”

  Zach lifted his anguished, tear-streaked face. “Why, Pa? Why did it have to happen?”

  “These sort of things don’t have to happen. They just do.”

  “They shot him full of arrows, Pa. Shakespeare pulled out eleven.” Zach sniffed and stared forlornly at the grave. “I found him back in a ravine. From the sign, Shakespeare thinks he killed two or thre
e of them before they got him.”

  “He was a scrapper,” Nate said huskily.

  “Francisco dug the grave himself. Said it was all his doing because he didn’t have enough men on guard when the Apaches attacked us.”

  “No one is to blame,” Nate declared.

  Winona tenderly put her hand on Zach’s head. “If you want, my son, we will find you a new dog after we return home. I have a cousin who would be willing to give us one.”

  “No, Ma.”

  “It might—”

  “No.”

  Nate stepped to the mound, sank to one knee, and picked up a handful of dirt. He let the loose earth run through his fingers, thinking of the many times the mongrel had come to their aid when they were in trouble. “So long, old friend,” he said.

  “It ain’t fair, Pa,” Zach said. “It just ain’t fair.”

  “That’s the way life is,” Nate responded, rising. “Sometimes things work out the way we’d like and sometimes they don’t. When the worst happens, you just square your shoulders and go on living the best way you know how.”

  Zach’s forehead creased and he glanced skyward. “Do dogs go to heaven like people do when they die, Pa? When I get up there will I see him again?”

  “I can’t rightly say, son,” Nate said, and added quickly when tears filled Zach’s eyes, “but if ever a dog deserved it, Samson was the one. You might see him again at that.”

  “I hope so, Pa. I truly hope so.”

  WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION

  11: NORTHWEST PASSAGE

  12: APACHE BLOOD

  By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson

  First Published by Leisure Books in 1992

  Copyright © 1992, 2016 by David Robbins

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Fresh Start, painted by Don Stivers.

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  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

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