Impulsively, Nate snapped the Hawken to his shoulder and took a bead on the foremost Blackfoot. He changed his mind at the last instant, preferring to save the shots for when he’d really need them.
The Shoshone women were trying to drive their animals to the east, away from the Blackfeet, while from all directions the Shoshone warriors converged on the column to protect their loved ones and property.
Nate hunched low in the saddle and the mare passed Shakespeare. He heard his name called but kept going. All he could think ot was Winona, and his eyes strayed to the column where she was frantically striving to turn her father’s horses. Attached to travois, and laden with lodge poles, robes, and overy other item the Indians owned, the animals awkwardly heeded commands and prodding. They were packed close together, and many collided in their incipient panic.
A Blackfoot armed with a lance broke away from the main body and rode directly toward Nate, yipping like a coyote.
Undaunted, Nate never slowed. The warrior was obviously trying to cut him off. He’d let the Blackfoot get nearer before firing.
Someone beat him to the punch.
A rifle cracked to his rear and the Blackfoot reacted as if kicked in the forehead by a mule, catapulting backwards, arms flung outward.
Shakespeare! Nate knew, and grinned in appreciation. His elation lasted only a few seconds, however, just long enough for him to draw within ten yards of the milling column. He’d managed to outdistance the Blackfeet, but only by 30 or 40 feet, and now five of them shrieked and whooped and bore down in a compact group straight at him.
Chapter Twelve
Nate risked a glance to check on Winona and found her still struggling with the horses. He also glimpsed Shoshone warriors rushing to the rescue from all directions, but none of them were close enough to prevent the Blackfeet from reaching the column. Then there was no time for anything except simply staying alive. The five enemy warriors were 20 feet distant when he lifted the Hawken, aimed, and sent a ball into the chest of the only one of the five armed with a bow.
The shot struck him just as the warrior drew back the string, and knocked him from his mount. Prematurely released, the arrow flew wild at a downward angle to the left and the shaft sank into the neck of the horse galloping alongside the archer’s. The wounded animal whinnied in torment and shied to the right, colliding with a third horse in the process, slowing down two of the warriors.
But two more came on fast and furious.
No sooner had Nate fired the Hawken than he wedged the barrel under his left leg and drew both pistols, one in each hand. He cocked them, keeping them next to his waist.
The two Blackfeet pounded toward him. A war club graced the upraised hand of the warrior on the left while the second Blackfoot held a lance.
Nate met them head-on, deliberately choosing a course that would take him between the pair of bloodthirsty warriors. He waited as long as he dared to fire, until the Blackfoot holding the lance drew the weapon back and tensed to hurl it. Then he extended both arms, pointed a pistol at each warrior, and squeezed both triggers.
The twin cracks and the discharge of lead and smoke resulted in both Blackfeet falling to the hard ground without uttering a word or cry.
Gloating was out of the question.
The fourth Blackfoot, a husky man bearing a tomahawk, had gotten his animal under control after colliding with the injured horse, and he screeched an inarticulate challenge as he now raced forward.
All three of Nate’s guns were empty and he couldn’t hope to reload before the husky warrior reached him. He had no doubt the Blackfoot could wield that tomahawk proficiently, and the odds against him surviving were astronomical unless he could concoct a clever ruse.
Desperate straits called for desperate measures.
Nate sat tall in the saddle, gripping both pistols tightly. He saw the warrior draw the tomahawk back when they were a paltry 15 feet apart, and to counter the anticipated blow he did the totally unexpected. He leaned toward the onrushing Blackfoot and hurled his left pistol at the man’s startled face.
The warrior instinctively ducked and twisted to the side.
Which was exactly the reaction Nate wanted. He closed in next to the Blackfoot’s horse and swung the right pistol, clubbing the warrior on the bridge of his nose. Blood gushed and the Blackfoot reeled. Nate hit him again, on the mouth, splitting the warrior’s lips and breaking off two front teeth.
The Blackfoot swayed and almost fell.
In a flash of inspiration, realizing he needed a suitable weapon for up-close combat, Nate lunged, grabbed the tomahawk handle in his left hand, and wrested the aboriginal hatchet from the warrior’s grasp. Instantly he tucked his remaining pistol under his belt, transferred the tomahawk to his right hand, and swung with all his might.
Finely crafted, with a triangular metal head fashioned in a white man’s forge and a red, factory-made cloth covering the handle, the tomahawk had apparently been received in trade from French traders hailing from Canada, with whom the Blackfeet were known to conduct an extensive business. The weapon possessed a perfect balance, and Nate found he could use it with ease.
The sharpened edge bit deep into the warrior’s brow above the right eye, and the Blackfoot clutched at the handle as he vented a strained, gurgling gasp.
Nate tore the tomahawk free and swung again, aiming at the warrior’s neck, and the edge cut into the soft flesh as if it were penetrating an overripe melon. Skin and muscle were readily severed, as were veins and arteries, and a crimson spray gushed from the fatal wound.
His eyes and mouth both wide in shock, the Blackfoot futilely pressed his hands over the gash, then sagged and toppled to the grass.
Nate hefted the bloody tomahawk, feeling a surge of confidence, and looked around for other foes. He didn’t have far to look.
The warrior astride the animal with the arrow jutting from its neck was bearing down on him, the wounded horse gamely responding to its master’s unspoken directions. The Blackfoot waved a war club and vented a challenging cry.
For Nate, there was barely time to turn the mare to meet the attack. He swung the tomahawk as the war club descended toward his skull, and just managed to deflect the weapon. The blow jarred his arm all the way to the shoulder.
Instantly the warrior swung again.
Nate blocked the strike, and then was forced to do so again and again as the Blackfoot tried to connect with increasingly reckless swings. All about him he could hear gunfire, shouts, screams, and the neighs of horses, but he couldn’t dare take his gaze from his opponent for even a second. In the back of his mind he wondered what had happened to Winona and Shakespeare, and he wanted very much to dispose of the warrior so he could aid them if necessary.
The Blackfoot had other notions.
Whipping the tomahawk in a hasty sideways parry, Nate battered yet another blow aside. For a moment his arm was extended and he was slightly off balance, and in that moment the Blackfoot revealed himself to be a seasoned veteran of many clashes.
Instead of swinging one more time in vain, the warrior vented a bloodcurling screech and launched his body into the air.
Nate tried to land a backhand strike and send his foe sprawling, but muscular arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was driven to the right with the Blackfoot on top. They were almost face to face as they dropped, and Nate looked into a pair of hate-filled eyes that implacably promised the most horrific fate imaginable if he should succumb to the designs of their owner. He came down hard on his right shoulder, felt the encircling arms let go, and rolled to his feet.
The Blackfoot was already erect and trying to plant a terrific swipe of his war club on the top of Nate’s head.
Only a reflexive counter-swipe with the tomahawk saved Nate from certain death. He deflected the club from his cranium, but the stone had struck a glancing blow off his left arm, causing excruciating pain and compelling him to retreat to avoid being hit again.
Sensing he had the edge, the warrior pre
ssed his advantage, raining blows.
Nate blocked a half dozen in rapid succession, gritting his teeth against the agony in his arm, and racked his brains for a means of dispatching the Blackfoot quickly. There had to be something he could do, some ruse that would work! He inadvertently stumbled on a way a few seconds later when his right foot slipped and he fell onto his right knee.
Bellowing in triumph, the Blackfoot streaked the war club in a vicious arc.
Nate threw himself to the right, onto the ground, and felt the passage of air past his ear as the war club narrowly missed. For a second he was on his side within arm’s reach of the warrior’s legs, and without conscious deliberation on his part, exhibiting a savagery that surprised even him, he buried the tomahawk in his enemy’s left foot.
The Blackfoot voiced a wavering screech and lurched backwards, striving to yank his foot free.
Nate tore the tomahawk loose and surged to his knees, drawing his right arm to the left as he rose, then swung. The edge ripped into the warrior’s abdomen before the Blackfoot could retreat out of harm’s way.
Uttering a visceral grunt, the warrior doubled over, his dark eyes the size of walnuts.
Without a pause, his lips set in a thin line, Nate jerked the tomahawk out. A loud squishing noise and a gasp from the Blackfoot attended the motion. He happened to look at the warrior’s face and saw displayed there, not fear or capitulation, but raw, spiteful defiance.
Somewhere nearby a woman wailed.
Winona! Was it her? Eager to go to her aid, Nate slashed the tomahawk across the warrior’s throat. The razor-edged steel sliced the Indian’s throat from side to side, and a crimson torrent sprayed out over Nate and the ground. He elevated his right arm to shield his eyes from the sticky liquid and pushed to his feet.
Wheezing and sputtering, the warrior sprawled forward.
There was no time to lose!
Nate spun, scanning the battlefield, seeking Winona and noting the flow of the fight. The action had already passed him by, and the main body of Blackfeet had reached the column and were now engaged in brutal, fierce combat with the Shoshone defenders. The Shoshone warriors had rallied to defend their loved ones, and although outnumbered, they were acquitting themselves admirably, Black Kettle foremost among them. The Shoshone leader was in the thick of the conflict, wielding a war club like a man possessed, striking madly at every adversary within range.
The din was deafening. Whoops, shouts, screams, gunshots, whinnies, and the frenzied barking of the Shoshone dogs commingled in a cacophonous uproar. Dust clouds swirled into the air, obscuring portions of the valley.
There was no sign of Winona. No Shakespeare, for that matter.
Alarmed, Nate spied his mare standing 20 feet away and ran toward the animal. En route he reclaimed his rifle, which had fallen when the Blackfoot knocked him from his horse, and the pistol he had thrown. The latter he crammed under his belt, then slid the tomahawk next to it. Tom between his eagerness to participate in the combat and the realization that carrying three empty guns into a fight qualified as a prime example of sheer stupidity, he took the time to quickly reload the Hawken and one of the pistols, his fingers flying faster than they ever had. In slightly over a minute both guns were ready to go and he climbed on the mare.
The clash still raged.
Nate rode into the dust cloud, toward where he’d last seen Winona. He covered 15 yards without spying anyone, just horses and dogs, and then the dust abruptly cleared and he discovered a large party of Shoshones besieged by the Blackfeet. Four Shoshone warriors were battling seven Blackfeet, protecting a half-dozen women who were fleeting eastward while driving horses laden with travois ahead of them.
One of the women was Winona!
Even as Nate’s gaze alighted on her, his blood seemed to chill at the sight of a Blackfoot who had singled her out and was trying to capture her.
Winona had a short pole in her hand. She was industriously swatting at the warrior in an attempt to drive him off, but her blows had only sufficed to make him angry.
Nate urged the mare toward them, his concern for Winona eclipsing all other considerations, even his own safety. He ignored everyone and everything except the struggle involving the woman whose lips tasted sweeter than the richest honey, whose embraces had promised so much the night before. An arrow whizzed past his head, but he paid scant heed.
Winona stood in danger.
All else was insignificant.
Neither of them saw Nate approach. He drew within two yards of the Blackfoot before the warrior awoke to his presence and turned. “Take this!” Nate cried, and extended the rifle barrel until the tip nearly touched the Indian’s nose. He instantly fired, holding the Hawken in just his right hand.
The blast lifted the Blackfoot from his horse and propelled him over eight feet to crash onto the unyielding earth.
Nate almost went down himself. The recoil from the rifle, while negligible when the Hawken was held properly in both hands, almost tore the gun from his grasp, whipping his arm backward and rocking him in the saddle. He recovered, transferred the rifle to his left hand, and leaned down to offer his right arm to Winona. “Here!” he yelled. “Take my hand!”
She didn’t understand his words, but his intent was clear, and she promptly took hold and allowed herself to be swung up behind him.
“Hold tight!” Nate advised, and pointed at his waist.
Winona nodded and banded her slim arms around his midriff.
Feeling strangely flushed, Nate wheeled the mare, about to speed Winona to safety far from the fight. He heard her cry out at the same moment he saw her father.
Forty feet to the west three Blackfeet had surrounded Black Kettle. He fought back valiantly, but they were clearly going to prevail unless he received assistance, and there were no other Shoshones close enough to lend a hand.
Winona shouted a word in Nate’s ear and motioned at her father.
Did he really have any choice?
The question flickered across Nate’s mind as he goaded the mare toward the unequal contest, drawing the loaded pistol and wishing he had taken the time to load both pistols.
Black Kettle had downed one of his opponents, bashing the man on the crown with a mighty swipe. As he twisted to confront the second Blackfoot, the third warrior, who held a slim lance, speared the shaft completely through Black Kettle’s chest.
Winona screamed in terror.
Chapter Thirteen
Nate closed rapidly, cocking the pistol, filled with dread at the sight of thee Blackfoot yanking the lance out and Black Kettle pitching headfirst to the soil. Winona’s arms tightened about his midsection, squeezing so hard it hurt.
The two Blackfeet weren’t done with Black Kettle. The warrior holding the lance moved his horse next to the Shoshone’s prone form and raised his arm for another thrust, evidently intending to be certain.
Winona sobbed.
Acting spontaneously, Nate pointed the pistol at the Blackfoot and at a distance of 25 feet squeezed the trigger. Much to his amazement, what with the range, the swaying of the mare, and the fact he had scarcely aimed, he scored.
The ball took the Blackfoot high in the right thigh, and in his shock and astonishment at being hit he dropped the lance.
At the retort the other warrior turned, a lean man holding a fusee. He took one look and raced off.
Nate stuck the pistol under his belt and drew the tomahawk, but the weapon wasn’t needed. The injured Blackfoot reined his animal to the west and galloped away without a backward glance. Nate was strongly tempted to pursue the warrior and finish the man off, but he brought the mare to a precipitate stop next to Black Kettle.
In a bound Winona was on the ground and kneeling beside her father. She leaned down to inspect the hole.
Worried because they were in the open, exposed with nowhere to take cover if they should be attacked, Nate slid down and began loading the Hawken. He scanned their immediate vicinity, taking stock of the situation.
<
br /> The dust had pretty much dissipated. Bodies were in evidence everywhere: men, women, children, horses, and even dogs. Shoshone possessions were scattered in profusion: lodge poles, many of them broken; buffalo robes, torn and lying in the dirt; baskets and bowls and blankets and dozens of items that had been crushed in the general stampede to escape.
Nate spotted a large band of Blackfeet departing to the east, taking scores of Shoshone horses with them. He saw no sign of Blackfeet warriors nearby, and he deduced the Shoshones must have driven the raiders off. A frantic woman ran toward them from the southeast, and he recognized her as Winona’s mother.
Hoofbeats drummed to his rear.
Nate had just completed reloading. He whirled, bringing the barrel up.
“Whoa, there, Grizzly Killer! I’m on your side, remember?”
“Shakespeare!” Nate declared happily, overjoyed to find the mountain man alive. He tempered his excitement and stepped aside to reveal Black Kettle. “He took a lance. ”
“Damn! ” Shakespeare exclaimed angrily, and dropped to the earth. He squatted next to Winona, examining the wound for himself. “This is bad. Very bad. He needs immediate medical attention.”
Nate gestured at the retreating Blackfeet. “At least we won. We can give him the care he needs without fretting about them.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid,” Shakespeare said, looking up. “We’re still in hot water.”
“How so?”
“The Blackfeet will be back.”
“They will?” Nate said, gazing after the war party.
At that moment Winona’s mother reached them and sank down with a cry of anguish.
Shakespeare stood slowly, sorrow etching his craggy features. He stared eastward. “Those devils aren’t about to let Black Kettle’s band off the hook so easily. Unless I miss my guess, a third of his people are dead or dying.”
“That many?” Nate stated in disbelief.
“And those bastards drove off almost all of the horses.”
“Then why will they come back? They’re already inflicted enough damage.”
Lure of the Wild (Wilderness, No 2) Page 10