Wilderness Double Edition 11

by David Robbins

  Felicity was looking right at him yet she never saw his leg move. The kick caught her high in the right shoulder and knocked her onto her back. Stunned, she went to rise, but suddenly he was there, astride her, his knee gouging into her abdomen while his left hand wrenched her hair.

  “Have a care, bitch!” the leader snarled. “You might fetch a pretty peso where we’re going, but that won’t stop me from gutting you like a fish if you keep mouthing off. I can always find another woman to sell to the Comanches or the Mexicans. Whether you want to or not, you will treat me with respect.”

  A sharp retort was on the tip of Felicity’s tongue, but it was choked off by the slab of a fist ramming into her stomach. Agony such as she had never known racked her, making her gasp and squirm.

  Gregor smiled. “That’s what I like to see.” He caressed her cheek, then tweaked it hard until she cried out. “Pain, woman. A person will do anything to be spared from pain. Before I’m done, you’ll beg me to do the kind of things I’ll warrant only your husband has ever done. And you’ll love every minute.” Sneering, he rose and walked off.

  Felicity wanted to sit up, to be strong in front of the others, but her limbs were mush, her resolve weakened. She was helpless before his brute force and he knew it. Closing her eyes, she curled into a ball.

  To the onlooking slavers, it appeared as if their captive had forsaken all hope and was in abject misery.

  The truth was quite different. Felicity Ward was praying, as she had many times prayed as a small child when things were going badly. She prayed for a miracle, for someone or something to save her from the ordeal she faced.

  In short, for a guardian angel.

  ~*~

  Winona King was jarred into rejoining the world of the living by the motion of her mare as it scrambled down an embankment. Pounding waves of pain lanced her head and she almost cried out. It took a while for her sluggish mind to make sense of her bouncing stomach and her sore wrists and ankles.

  The slavers had thrown her over the pinto, belly down, and lashed her hands to her legs.

  Winona tried to unbend but couldn’t. The circulation in her limbs had been cut off for so long that her arms and legs were practically numb. Her stomach felt as if it had been stomped on by a mule. And as if all that were not enough, she felt slightly sick. Not meaning to, she groaned.

  “Well, well, well,” said a familiar raspy voice. “Looks as if the squaw won’t die, after all. She’s a tough one, ain’t she, Chipota?”

  “Yes,” the Lipan answered.

  Winona could see neither of them. By craning her neck she saw a horse behind the mare and one in front of it, but she could not glimpse either rider. Suddenly another horse darted toward the mare, coming up beside her. She learned what it meant when Ricket barked an order.

  “Don’t you dare, Owens! You lay a finger on her and you’ll answer to Gregor!”

  “I owe her, damn it! You saw the knot she put on my noggin!” Owens challenged. “I should break every bone in her stinking body.”

  Winona flinched as the slaver’s sorrel was ridden right into her. Not hard, but hard enough to set her head to renewed ringing and her shoulders to screaming in protest.

  “You heard me!” Ricket stood his ground. “Harm her and Gregor will peel your hide! And I’ll help hold you down for not listenin’ to me.”

  Something jabbed Winona between the shoulder blades. She was sure it had been a rifle barrel. For a few harrowing moments she thought that Owens would disobey and shoot her. Then another horse whipped close to her and barreled the sorrel aside.

  “That be enough,” the Lipan declared. “No more hurt her.”

  Owens did not take kindly to having the warrior tell him what to do. “Who the hell do you think you are, Injun? I may have to listen to Gregor and to this old fart when Gregor puts him in charge, but I sure as hell don’t have to stand for having a red son of a bitch like you—”

  Whatever else Owens was going to say was cut short by the thud of a blow landing. Winona saw Owens crash onto his back beside the sorrel. He was livid. His rifle had slipped from his grasp, but he still had two pistols and he whisked a hand to one of them. He wasn’t quite fast enough. Abruptly, he froze, his expression fearful.

  “You draw,” the Lipan said, “and I put knife in you.”

  Owens licked his lips, his eyes narrowing.

  For a few seconds the issue hung in the balance, and then Ricket joined them. “I tell you,” he grumbled, “havin’ to deal with this bunch is like havin’ a passel of younguns underfoot all the time. It’s a pain in the backside.” He paused. “Chipota, why don’t you lower your arm? I know you can fling that pigsticker into a fly at ten paces, but Gregor would have a fit if you made wolf meat of this yack.”

  The warrior evidently complied, because Owens relaxed and took his hand off his flintlock. Plastering a smile on his face, he slowly sat up, saying, “I reckon I wasn’t thinking straight, Chipota. I didn’t mean what I called you. It’s just that being conked on the head made me madder than hell. No hard feelings, eh?”

  The Lipan grunted.

  Winona had been ignored during the dispute. Now she twisted to see Ricket regarding her with a wry grin. “What do you find so humorous?”

  “Women. The whole bunch of you are more trouble than you’re worth.” Ricket shook his head. “Beats me what the Good Lord was thinkin when he created females. Seems to me the world would have been a heap better off with just men.” Clucking his horse forward, he took the mare’s reins in hand and headed out.

  Owens had risen. He glared at Winona as she went by, but he did not say anything, perhaps because the Lipan fell into step behind her.

  Winona wondered why the warrior had come to her defense. She also pondered his behavior the night before, when he had acted reluctant to bring her back. Was it because they were both Indians? That seemed unlikely, since Apaches were notorious for regarding all other tribes as enemies. No, there had to be another reason, but Winona was at a loss to know what it might be.

  By bending her body away from the pinto, Winona was able to note the position of the sun. She was surprised to learn it was late in the afternoon, which meant she had been unconscious all night and most of the day.

  The ropes were biting deep into her flesh. Whoever had tied her had done the job much tighter than was necessary, leading Winona to suspect that Owens was to blame. It would be just like him to take petty revenge by making her suffer. She tried rubbing her wrists and ankles together to loosen her bonds, but it only made matters worse. The skin broke. Blood trickled down over her fingers.

  Finally Winona glanced at Ricket. “I would be grateful if you untied me.”

  The slaver laughed without looking back. “Nope. I don’t think so. As soon as you got the chance, you’d head for the hills. I won’t risk havin’ you give us the slip a second time.”

  Winona was confronted by a dilemma. She could not continue to hang there. When they finally did stop, she would be unable to move until her circulation was restored. That might take hours. And during all that time she would be completely at the mercy of her captors. “What if I give you my word?”

  This got Ricket’s interest. He shifted in the saddle. “How’s that, squaw-woman?”

  “What if I give you my word that I will not try to escape? Will you untie me then?”

  “And you expect me to believe you?” Ricket crackled. “You must think I’m awful stupid.”

  “I would not break my word,” Winona insisted. And, in truth, she wouldn’t. She was a woman of honor, just like her man. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him.

  Many men, even Shoshone warriors, were not always honest in their dealings with their wives. They would fool around with other women, then lie if caught. They would stay out late gambling with buffalo-bone dice, then come back to the lodge and claim they had been at a council meeting.

  But not her Nate. He never lied to her. And he would rather spend his evenings in her
company than with rowdy friends who had nothing better to do with their time than tell tall tales and lose their hard-earned possessions at games of chance.

  Honor. It was as important to both of them as life itself. When they said they would do something, they did it. When they made a vow, that vow was never broken. So when Winona gave her word, she sincerely meant to keep it.

  But Ricket shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “Maybe you’re not lyin. But I’m not the one to put you to the test. We’ll leave that to Gregor. You’ll just have to hang there until we rendezvous with him.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  The slaver scratched his chin. “Oh, if we ride all night, we should be at Black Squirrel Creek shortly after sunrise tomorrow. That’s where we’re to meet up.”

  Winona knew that region of the prairie well. Black Squirrel Creek fed into the Arkansas River about a two-days’ ride from Bent’s Fort, where Nate and she had gone many times to trade and purchase supplies. She knew some of the men who lived at the fort, including William Bent himself, and Ceran St. Vrain, both good friends of Nate’s. If only there were some way of getting word to them! They would arm every man at the fort and rally to her rescue.

  Trying to keep any trace of excitement from her voice, Winona casually asked, “Will you be stopping at Bent’s Fort before you head south?”

  Ricket snickered. “If some of us do pay the fort a visit, you can be damn sure that you won’t be taggin’ along. Five or six men will stay behind to keep you company.”

  Winona slumped, dejected. She tried telling herself that all was not lost, that eventually she would regain her freedom. But the prospects were growing bleaker. Once Ricket s band rejoined the other slavers, the odds of her being able to give them the slip would be very slim.

  At that very moment, to her surprise and the surprise of every other slaver, the Lipan unexpectedly goaded his horse up next to the mare, bent down, and with a flick of his long butcher knife, he slashed the rope binding her wrists.

  “What the hell!” Owens cried.

  Ricket reined up and wheeled his horse. “Hold on there, Chipota. What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

  The Lipan did not respond. He moved his mount around to the other side of the mare and leaned over to cut the rope around Winona’s ankles.

  “Damn it all!” Ricket said. “Have you gone plumb loco on me?”

  Winona needed to take advantage of the situation while it lasted. She reached up to grab the mare’s mane. But the blood flow had been cut off for so long that her arm did not want to cooperate. It commenced tingling, then pulsed with pain. She arched her spine to raise her body high enough to hook her elbow over the pinto’s neck and hung there a few moments, waiting for the agony to subside. Her other arm and both legs also started hurting.

  Chipota had slid his knife into its sheath and now advanced to take the mares reins from a stupefied Ricket. “I watch her now,” he said.

  The grizzled slaver looked as if he could not make up his mind whether to be outraged or to just let the warrior have his way. Ricket sputtered, then coughed, then glanced at the other slavers and back at the Lipan. “What in tarnation has gotten into you? I’ve never seen you act like this before.”

  “I watch her,” Chipota said.

  “We heard you the first time.” Ricket pursed his lips and stared hard at Winona as if she were to blame. “If you want the responsibility, it’s yours. But mark my words. Let her escape and you’ll have to answer to Gregor. He won’t like it if we lose a beauty like this one.”

  Chipota looked at Winona. For a fleeting instant she saw something in his eyes that she had not noticed before, something which explained everything and filled her with more dread than ever. In a very real sense she had gone from the frying pan into the fire, as her mate was fond of saying. The moment passed when Chipota turned his typical stony gaze on Owens.

  “She not run off. She not be hurt. Savvy, white-eye?”

  Owens bristled. “Why single me out, Injun? I’m not going to lay a finger on her. But I will laugh like hell when she slips a knife into you when you’re not looking. You’re a fool if you think that she won’t.” Lashing his reins, he turned and rode off.

  Ricket speared a finger at Winona. “Do you see? Do you see all the trouble women make? You’re all the same. Just like my fickle ma. She used to draw men to her like honey draws bears. I lost count of all the squabbles she caused. And you’re no better.” He moved off in a huff.

  Winona wisely made no comment. She managed to swing her legs over the mare as Chipota resumed their trek. Now that she knew what was on his mind, she had to keep her eyes on him at all times. She would not put it past him to spirit her off so he could have her all to himself. Then she recalled that he had a son named Santiago riding with Gregor. Since it was unlikely Chipota would do anything to endanger his own flesh and blood, she should be safe until the two bands reunited.

  Her arms and legs ached for hours. Winona rubbed both constantly to aid the circulation. Her scraped wrists stopped bleeding but bothered her whenever she moved them.

  The sun headed for the western horizon. Winona was thirsty and hungry but too proud to ask for drink or food. Several times she caught Owens giving her a look such as someone might give an insect they intended to crush underfoot. She had made a bitter enemy who would stop at nothing to pay her back. Despite what Owens had told the Lipan, she dared not turn her back on him.

  As the sun faded over the distant mountains, so did Winona’s flickering hope begin to fade. With each passing moment she was being led farther from her loved ones. In a few days they would be well south of Bent’s Fort, in country she did not know, where there were many enemies of the Shoshones, where every hand would be raised against her, as it were.

  It was enough to discourage the bravest of souls.

  As night descended, Winona King felt as if she were riding into the very heart of darkness. In more ways than one.

  ~*~

  Felicity Ward lay on her back, a blanket hiked up under her chin, and trembled. She knew it would be soon now. Gregor would return and force himself on her. And she had nothing to fight him with except her teeth and her nails.

  For the past several hours the slavers had been sipping whiskey, smoking pipes and playing cards. None were anywhere near her, but she knew better than to try to flee. They would catch her before she had gone fifty yards and punish her severely.

  Felicity looked toward the fire and saw Gregor upend a silver flask. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her shoulder and someone whispered in her ear.

  “Do not say a word, señora. Do not do anything to give me away. They cannot see us here in the shadows, not when they are so close to the fire.”

  Bewildered, Felicity glanced around. Julio Trijillo was on his hands and knees beside her. She could not see his features. “What do you want?” she timidly asked.

  “Take this. It is the best I can do.”

  Something long and hard was pressed into Felicity s hand. Before she could question him further, the Mexican slipped noiselessly away. Moments later she saw him circle around into the firelight and stroll over to the others.

  Lifting her hand, Felicity discovered a double-edged dagger. She could not believe her eyes. It defied reason for one of the slavers to aid her. Yet Julio was the only one who had treated her kindly since her capture. He was not like the rest. Even Gregor had admitted as much. Why he should help her, she had no idea.

  A footstep sounded close by. Frightened that Gregor was on his way over, Felicity shoved the dagger under the blanket and looked up. It was only one of the others going off into the high grass.

  Felicity fingered the smooth hilt and steeled herself for what she had to do. Over an hour went by, an hour during which her every nerve was on edge. Then, at last, she saw the giant rise and shuffle toward her. She gripped the dagger and held it close to her bosom, ready to thrust when he lifted the blanket off her.

&n
bsp; The man reeked of whiskey and sweat. Swaying slightly, he knelt on the edge of the blanket and leered at her. “The time has come, bitch,” he said, slurring every word. His huge arm extended toward her. “You’re about to learn that I mean what I say.”

  The dagger suddenly felt much heavier than it was. Felicity trembled. She feared that she would start shaking uncontrollably and not be able to carry through with what she had to do.

  Just then, shots rang out.

  Ten

  Several hours earlier and not all that many miles to the north, Simon Ward stared in shock at the enormous shaggy brute of a buffalo blowing noisily through its flared nostrils and pawing the ground as if it were about to attack.

  On the long journey west Simon had seen many buffalo, but always at a distance. The mountain men in St. Louis had warned him about the dangers of getting too close. Buffalo were as unpredictable as bears, they had told him. Where one might flee at the sight of a human, another might attack. It was best to fight shy of them at all times.

  Simon had not needed encouragement to avoid the huge beasts. They sported wicked sets of hooked horns that could disembowel a man or another animal with a single toss of their massive heads. The average bull stood as high as his horse. The biggest ones weighed over a thousand pounds. They were more formidable than grizzlies – and much more numerous.

  The mountaineers had told Simon tales of poor souls caught in stampedes, their bodies crushed to pulped bits of flesh and bone. He had heard of one trapper who unwittingly stumbled on a bull in a wallow; both man and mount had been torn to ribbons by the enraged buffalo.

  Now, seeing one at such close range, all those stories filtered through Simon’s mind, filling him with fear. He lifted the reins to flee. But as he did, he noticed Nate King. The trapper had reined up a few yards past him and was turning his head every which way to pinpoint the buffalo’s exact location.

  It occurred to Simon that if the bull were to charge, it would bowl over Nate first, giving him the time he needed to escape. All it would take to trigger the charge was for him to whirl and gallop off. But he couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice the frontiersman just to save his skin. Not after all King had done for him. Not if he wanted to be able to look at his own reflection again without being sick to his stomach.