His sore jaw only compounded Simon’s misery. He rubbed it while mulling what to do and finally opted to slink back toward the camp to see if he could find Nate King. Holding the pistol out in front of him, Simon slowly moved forward.
In a short while Simon thought he heard low voices. Halting, he tried to make sense of the words but they were too faint. A lot of rustling ensued, fading rapidly toward the camp. The slavers were heading back, apparently.
Encouraged, Simon went on. He had not gone far when a racket broke out about fifty feet to the east of his position. It sounded as if a bull buffalo were barreling across the prairie. On listening closely, he guessed that it had to be two men in a tussle. He heard their grunts, heard the thud of a fist striking home.
Daring to rise on his toes once more, Simon saw a black silhouette rear up out of the grass. He could not make out many details. That the man was immensely powerful was proven by the struggling figure he had hoisted overhead. For a few heartbeats the tableau was frozen, then the big man swept the figure downward and there was a crack so loud it resembled the retort of a pistol. But Simon knew the truth. It had been a human spine breaking.
A slew of shouts signified that the slavers had heard the ruckus and were on their way back. ‘There!” one yelled. “There he is! I want his hide!”
Simon dropped down, but not before seeing the big man sprint off to the southeast. He figured that it had to be Nate King, but there was nothing he could do to help the trapper out. A single shot would draw the slavers like flies to honey. It was better for him to lay low until the hubbub died down.
So that was exactly what Simon Ward did. More shots thundered. After one of them, a gruff voice cried, “I think I nailed him! Close in! We’ve got the bastard now!”
Despair gnawed at Simon’s soul at the thought of losing the frontiersman. He was so strongly tempted to leap up and blaze away that he had to will himself to stay right where he was for the time being.
The hunt seemed to go on forever. Several times slavers passed close to where Simon lay on his stomach, but none came close enough to spot him. He was relieved when at length someone bellowed that the search was over and the slavers hurried toward their camp.
A lot of noise wafted on the breeze. The clink of a tin pot, the rasp of a knife blade on a whetstone, the whinny of horses and the barked orders of the slaver leader.
Simon was shocked. By the sound of things, the cutthroats were preparing to head on out. Felicity would be toted along whether she wanted to be or not. And it would take him quite some time to catch up since his bay was close to a mile away.
Desperate measures were called for. Simon stalked toward the trampled area. There might be some means of freeing her if he stayed alert and seized the moment.
The camp swarmed with activity. Most of the animals had either been saddled or had packs thrown on them. Some slavers were mounted. Others were busy tying on more supplies. A huge man who had to be the leader stood near Felicity, along with a portly man in buckskins and a Mexican in a sombrero.
Simon’s heart ached at the sight of his wife. She hung her head low, despondent, her arms limp at her sides. No one was holding her, but she made no attempt to flee. It was as if all the life had been drained from her except for that needed to draw breath. Simon did not comprehend why until he drew closer.
The leader was talking. “—pout all you want to, woman, it won’t change a thing. Your husband is dead. The sooner you face that fact, the better. As for the big guy who was with him, that jasper took a ball and has crawled off somewhere to die.”
Simon was devastated on two counts. First, the vile slaver lied through his teeth about Simon being killed. The only reason Simon could think of for the slaver to do it was to break Felicity’s spirit so she would go along meekly with whatever the man wanted.
Second, the news that Nate King had been shot shook him to his core. He needed the mountain man more than ever.
Then the notion came over Simon that maybe the bearish leader was lying about Nate, too. The frontiersman was as tough as two penny nails. More than likely he had given the band the slip. Or so Simon prayed.
Soon the remaining horses were saddled and the remaining packs were tied on. One of the slavers extinguished the fire while the rest filed out of the camp, bearing due south.
Simon had blundered. In his eagerness to see Felicity, he had snuck within a few steps of the end of the grass. Now, with the riders passing by within a dozen paces of his hiding place, he stood in peril of being seen.
Hunkering, Simon tensed, awaiting the outcry that would bring the band swooping down on him like buzzards to a fresh kill. It was that very moment that the fire went out, blanketing him in welcome darkness. Unless the wind shifted, he just might avoid being noticed.
The slavers rode off in single file, some in pairs. In the forefront trotted the huge leader. In his left hand was the lead rope to the gelding Felicity had been thrown onto. Her ankles had been lashed together under the animals belly to keep her from jumping down and running off.
It tore Simon in half to have to squat there while the love of his life was led away by men every bit as vicious as the grizzlies he had heard so much about. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he waged an inner tug of war with his emotions. Part of him wanted to break down and blubber as he invariably did in times of stress. The other part of him wanted to be strong, to demonstrate the gumption that a grown man should have.
Gradually the creak of leather and the clop of hooves faded. Simon forlornly stood and sighed. “Felicity,” he said softly. “My darling.”
The only answer was the whisper of wind and the rustle of grass.
Simon let down the hammer on the pistol and shoved it under his belt. He was about to go look for Nate King when he spied a trio of black forms in the middle of the trampled circle.
Slavers! Simons mind screamed. They had tricked him and left three men behind to fill him with lead when he showed himself. But they were not going to get him without a fight! Drawing both pistols, Simon burst into the open and took aim at the closest form. He was scared witless, but he was determined to resist. Felicity would know that he had gone down fighting on her behalf, which might lessen the sting of his failure to protect her.
The Bostonian had his fingers on the triggers and was beginning to squeeze when something about the three forms struck him as being extremely peculiar.
They were on their backs, one right next to the other. Not one had moved, even when he dashed out of the grass.
Holding his fire, Simon edged nearer. Inky puddles that were spreading under two of the men explained why they were so lifeless. He stopped next to the first and lowered his pistols.
One was white, another Mexican, the third either an Indian or a half-breed.
The white man had been shot in the sternum. The ball had cored his chest and exited high on the right shoulder, leaving a hole the size of Simon’s fist.
The Mexican had also been shot, but in the face. The bullet had entered low on the left cheek, passed completely through the skull, and blown out a ragged cavity above the right ear. Of the two men, this one bled the most, bits and pieces of brain mixed with his blood.
Strangely enough, the Indian’s body bore no evidence of a bullet or knife wound. Simon did note that the man’s arms were bent at an unnatural angle, as if each were busted at the shoulders. It took him a few moments to conclude that it wasn’t the arms, but the spine that had been broken, and he remembered the fight he had observed. This, then, was the man Nate King had snapped over a knee as other men might snap broomsticks.
But where was King now?
Fueled by that burning question, Simon hastened back into the sea of grass. It upset him that the trapper had not appeared after the slavers departed, and he began to dread that the leader had not been lying, that the slavers really had shot the mountain man.
Simon cupped a hand to his mouth and called out softly, “Mr. King? Nate? Where are you?”
<
br /> To the west a wolf wailed its lonesome lament and received the same reply Simon did: silence.
He nervously tapped his foot, unable to decide whether he should search for the trapper or go retrieve their horses. It troubled him, the animals being left unguarded. Nighttime, he had been told, was when most big predators, like bears and cats, were abroad.
Suddenly, as if to show how right he was, a rumbling growl pierced the plain. It was much too close for comfort. Simon’s breath quickened. He could not tell where the sound came from, so he turned in a complete circle, trying to spy the source. If a hungry grizzly had caught his scent, he was as good as dead. The old-timers in St. Louis had stressed that trying to drop a griz using a pistol was an exercise in futility unless the bear was close enough to touch. Of course, if one of the mighty behemoths was that close, it would be on a man before he could get off a shot.
A loud crunch brought goosebumps to Simon’s flesh. Something was coming toward him. He saw its bulky shape, saw stems bending to its great weight. Overcome by terror, he back-pedaled and tried to aim the flintlocks. To his dismay, his hands shook so badly that he could not hold the barrels steady.
In another moment the shape lurched into full view. Indescribable relief flooded through Simon as he recognized Nate King. But his joy was short-lived, for the mountain man uttered a groan and fell with a thud at his very feet.
Seven
Felicity Ward had never known true sorrow until now.
Her life had been enough of an ordeal making the arduous trek west to satisfy her husband’s craving for adventure. It had turned into a nightmare when the pair of smelly, greasy slavers had pounced on her just as she was about to remove her underclothes. The nightmare had become a living hell as the pair hustled her southward, the man called Gregor cuffing her whenever she opened her mouth and cursing her in the most horrid language imaginable.
Still, Felicity had entertained hope. She knew her husband would not abandon her to her fate. She looked for him to show up sooner or later and save her from the loathsome clutches of the despicable crew of perverts.
Then Felicity’s fondest desire had come true.
Simon had appeared – only to be shot the instant he did. And now, according to her tormentors, her husband was dead, lying back on the prairie, riddled by bullets.
It was more than Felicity could endure.
For the first time since she was ten years-old, Felicity cried. She had never been one of those women who wept over every little setback life had to offer, but this proved too much.
Despite her small size and seeming frailty, inwardly Felicity had strength few of her peers could match. It was this strength that had given her the courage to forsake all that she knew. It was this strength that had sustained her during the ungodly long journey from Boston to the Rockies. It was this strength she had relied on to see her through the many long years ahead of living high up in the remote recesses of the mountains, cut off from the civilization she so liked, deprived of the comfort of family and friends.
And why had Felicity been so willing to give up all that was safe and secure and familiar? For the same reason women had been making similar sacrifices since the dawn of time, for the love of her man.
Oh, Felicity knew that Simon was more bluster than he would ever admit. She knew that he let his imagination run rampant over his common sense. In short, she knew all his flaws, but she loved him anyway.
In that regard Felicity was like many of her sisters. Secretly, she had never considered herself truly attractive or witty or charming, or any of the other things Simon constantly told her she was. Secretly, she had doubted that she would ever marry, that any man would think her worthy of being a lifelong mate.
So when Simon Ward had shown an interest in her, Felicity had been surprised. When he had courted her, she had been amazed. And when he had proposed, she had been so grateful for his ardent love that his flaws paled in comparison.
Oh, Simon! Felicity mentally shrieked. Squeezing her eyes tight, she shut off the flow of tears. Reaching deep down into the heart of her being, she found her flickering strength and clung to it as a drowning person would cling to a floating log.
Then hooves pounded beside the gelding, and Felicity looked up to discover that Gregor had dropped back to ride next to her. She dabbed at her cheeks and held her head high.
The slaver chortled. “Still have some grit left, do you? Well, we’ll rid you of that soon enough, woman. By the time we reach Texas, you’ll lick my feet clean every morning and love doing it.”
“Never!” Felicity declared, revolted.
“Think so?” Gregor’s smile was that of a man supremely sure he was right. “Others have felt the same as you. More than I could count. And each and every one of them learned the error of their ways in time. That’s the key to what I do. Time. I have all the time in the world to break you.” His smile widened. “Even the wildest mustang will tame down eventually.”
Felicity refused to be cowed. “I pray that you rot in Hell, you devil. If anyone has ever deserved eternal punishment, it’s you.”
The huge man found that amusing also. “Don’t tell me. I’ve got another Christian on my hands. Tell me, Christian, where’s this almighty God of yours? Why doesn’t lightning crash down out of the sky and fry me for daring to lay a finger on you?” Gregor leaned toward her. “I’ll tell you why, bitch. It’s because there is no God. I’m proof of that.”
“You flatter yourself,” Felicity said, and was rocked by a slap to the face that left her cheek burning as if from a hundred bee stings.
“I warned you before. Don’t insult me or you’ll regret it.” Gregor clucked to his mount and pulled ahead.
Felicity Ward watched him, her fists clenched so hard that her knuckles were white. There was the one to blame for her plight. There was the brute responsible for the death of the man she loved. And he was the one she was going to kill. The others would probably tear her to pieces afterward. But so what? She would gladly give her life to avenge her husband.
All Felicity needed was for any of the slavers to lower their guard for the few moments it would take her to grab a pistol or a knife.
Then Gregor would learn the truth the hard way. There was a Hell. And he was going to burn in it forever.
At that moment, many miles to the northwest, another woman was about to defy another band of slavers.
~*~
Winona King was not about to meekly do as Ricket wanted. His threats were wasted on her. She had fought Apaches, Blackfeet and grizzlies. She had survived flash floods, fire and drought. All of which had molded her into someone able to hold her own against anyone, anywhere.
So no sooner did three of the four slavers fall asleep than Winona cracked her eyelids and awaited her chance. She had turned in hours ago, pretending to be asleep all that time. With the Lipan off in the forest, no one had been the wiser.
The Lipan. He was the one Winona had to keep her eyes skinned for, the one who could ruin her escape. She had no way of knowing where he was. He might be off in the trees, he might be so close that she could throw a pebble and hit him. Regardless, she had to try to get away now, before she was taken even farther from Shoshone territory.
Owens was the slaver standing guard. Or, rather, sitting guard, because once the others had commenced snoring he had plunked himself on a log and pulled his deck of cards from a shirt pocket. He had his back to the fire, and to her.
Winona glanced at each of the others in turn. Ricket had his mouth wide enough to snare low-flying birds. His snore was a throaty rumble worthy of a bear. It drowned out the snoring of the remaining pair, one of whom had covered his head with the top of his blanket.
Slowly, Winona tucked her legs to her chest, eased onto her hands and knees, and pushed to her feet. None of the sleepers reacted. Owens went on playing his card game. Solitaire. Nate had taught her how to play, but she had never been fond of it – not like she was of checkers or her very favorite, chess.
&n
bsp; Winona needed a weapon. The slavers had gone to bed fully armed, with their rifles at their sides. Trying to slide one out from under a blanket would be too risky.
Stacked near the fire was enough wood to last the night. Among the broken limbs lay a short, thick piece, which would do nicely.
Never taking her eyes off Owens, Winona stooped and carefully lifted a few branches aside to get at the one she wanted. She quietly set each down to her left. Once, she froze as Owens leaned back and stretched. His head started to twist, and for a few awful moments, it appeared that he would turn and see her. But he was only relieving a kink in his neck.
The slaver bent over his cards again. Winona picked up the limb she wanted. Her hand barely fit around it. Sliding both hands to one end, she moved toward the log.
Again Owens glanced up. Again Winona stopped. He gazed at the same point in the forest, as if he had heard or sensed something there. Could it be the Lipan? Winona wondered. If so, the warrior was bound to thwart her escape attempt. But she had to see it through. She owed it to her loved ones. She owed it to herself.
Another long stride put Winona directly behind Owens. He had picked up the deck and was shuffling his cards. Winona raised her club as high as it would go, tensed every muscle in her body, and brought the branch down on the crown of Owens’ head.
The thud of the blow landing was so loud that Winona was certain the others would hear. But they slumbered blissfully on as Owens oozed to the ground and lay with his hands and feet twitching.
Winona lost no time. Placing the branch down, she snatched a pistol from under the slaver s belt and was about to do the same with his butcher knife when her intuition blared. She looked into the trees at the same spot Owens had, and her blood chilled.
Rushing toward the camp was a stocky figure. His features were dappled by darkness, but Winona did not have to see them to know who it was.
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