Wilderness Double Edition 11

by David Robbins

  “But what if—” Zach began, stopping when his mother raised a hand.

  “When you have lived as long as I have, my son, you will learn not to worry so much. Most of the time the things we worry about never happen. As your father likes to say, take one day at a time.”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  Winona nodded. She stared off to the south, careful not to let her son see the burning anxiety that blazed like twin bonfires in her eyes. My husband, she thought, where are you?

  ~*~

  Nate King froze on spying the Lakotas. He had no idea if they were Oglalas, Minniconjous, San Arcs, Brules, or Hunkpapas. It didn’t much matter. All Lakotas were hostile to whites. If they saw him, they’d try to make wolf meat of him.

  The Sioux were scouring the west side of White Bark Creek. A tall warrior in the middle of the group abruptly pointed to the south with his lance and spoke a few words. In the blink of an eye the five warriors dashed off, entering the water further down and splashing across into a cluster of saplings.

  Rising into a crouch, Nate ran toward his son’s pinto. He no longer cared about Emmet Carter; the greenhorn was on his own. Nate had to get out of there before the Lakotas returned.

  The paint stood with its head hung low, close to exhaustion. Its legs and sides were flecked with dirt, its body caked with dust. It snorted when Nate grabbed the reins and untied them from a tree limb, but once it sniffed at his arm the pinto let him lead it northward.

  Nate was halfway to the thicket when a piercing shriek prickled the hair at the nape of his neck. Halting behind cottonwoods, he saw the greenhorn burst from the saplings the Sioux had gone into. Carter hobbled as he ran, an arrow jutting from high on his thigh. Panic etched his countenance.

  On his heels came the five warriors. They were in no particular hurry. Two of them bore to the left, two others to the right, to hem him in, while the tall warrior with several eagle feathers in his hair followed the greenhorn into the creek.

  Whining in pathetic terror, Emmet Carter spun and trained the rifle on the tall warrior. The Lakota stopped and sat calmly, a bow in his right hand with an arrow notched to the sinew string.

  “Leave me be!” Carter cried. “Just turn tail and go or you’ll be sorry!”

  The bluff didn’t work. The warriors simply stared at him, waiting.

  “I mean it!” Carter yelled shrilly. “So help me God, I’ll drop the first one who so much as lifts a finger against me!”

  None of the Indians moved a muscle. Nate dared not move, himself, or they might spot him. He had to stand there and watch the tableau unfold. Carter’s plight elicited no sympathy. The man had brought it down on his own head; he would have to reap the consequences.

  Several of the Lakotas were smirking. This was sport to them. Rough, grim sport, to be sure, but the kind they enjoyed the most.

  A hefty specimen armed with a lance edged his war horse closer and poked the tapered tip at Carter. He was having fun, not really trying to connect.

  Carter misconstrued. “I warned you!” he wailed. Elevating the rifle, he stroked the trigger.

  At the blast, the hefty warrior toppled from his horse, landing on his backside in waist-deep water. The ball had caught him well up on the right shoulder, passing under his collarbone. Dazed, he reached up and touched a finger to the trickle of blood seeping from the wound.

  The lighthearted mood of the Sioux was gone. Their faces cast in flinty lines, they slowly closed in on the greenhorn.

  “Damn you! Stay back!” Carter howled, clawing his stolen pistol free. Slowly back-pedaling, he swung the flintlock first at one warrior, then at another, trying to cover all four of them at the same time. “I’ll shoot the next one of you in the head! Just see if I don’t!”

  His railing had no impact on the Lakotas. They continued to move toward him, although none, as yet, lifted a weapon.

  Carter was on the verge of hysterics. “I know about you filthy savages!” he screamed. “I’ve heard the stories! And if you think I’ll let you torture me, you have another think coming!” Shifting, he scanned the woods and called out in desperation, “King! Nate King! I know you’re there somewhere! If you can hear me, I’m sorry for what I did! I just wanted to get home! Please help me! Together we can fight these bastards off!”

  Nate frowned. Now the warriors knew there was another white man nearby. They were scanning the trees, and one was making for the west bank. Nate would have shot the greenhorn himself, but he needed both pistols primed for when the Sioux came after him.

  “Answer me, damn it!” Carter screeched. “You can’t just let these butchers rub me out! I’m white, like you. You can’t stand by and let them kill me!”

  The warrior on the west bank was peering into every shadow, checking behind every bush.

  Nate had to act. Taking a single stride, he vaulted onto the pinto and took off like a bat out of hell to the north. Wolfish yips told him the Lakotas had spotted him. He looked back just as the tall warrior, in a blur, streaked the bow up and unleashed a shaft that transfixed Carter’s right arm. The greenhorn screamed and dropped the pistol into the water. Two Sioux promptly rode him down.

  That was all Nate had a chance to see. The warrior on the west bank was flying toward him, a lance upraised to hurl. Nate goaded the tired pinto on and was almost to the thicket when the Sioux drew within throwing range.

  Twisting, Nate extended his left flintlock. The .55-caliber bucked and boomed, and the warrior catapulted backwards over the rump of his mount. Cries of outrage issued from the Lakotas as he jammed the spent piece under his belt.

  Speeding to the stallion, Nate scooped up the reins and fled. His only hope lay in outdistancing them. Body bent low, he trotted to the northwest and within moments laid eyes on the prairie. And more Lakotas. Seven or eight warriors were rapidly bearing down on the cottonwoods.

  Cutting back to the right, Nate rode parallel with White Bark Creek. He stuck to dense brush and covered fifty yards without being seen. Then a bellow warned him that the Sioux were in hard pursuit. The pinto was doing its best, but it was on its last legs. He would be better off on the stallion, but there was no time to switch.

  Arrows whizzed down around him. Most were wide of the mark, but a few missed him by a hand’s width. He veered farther to the right and plowed through high weeds to find himself almost at the edge of the creek bank. Legs pumping, he flew northward.

  Sioux were surging toward the big trapper from the rear and from the left. Their war whoops and yips formed a harsh chorus, which grew louder as they narrowed the gap.

  Nate was swiftly losing ground. The pinto just was not up to a sustained chase. Hauling hard on the stallion’s reins, he guided the big black up alongside the smaller paint. Girding himself, he raised his legs and tucked them up under him. It was difficult to keep his balance, but he managed.

  More arrows sought his life as Nate coiled and sprang to the left. For a dizzying moment he hung suspended in the air between the two horses, and for a harrowing instant it seemed as if he would drop straight down and be trampled. Then he alighted on the stallion, clamped his legs tight, and reluctantly allowed the pinto to slow to a walk even as he brought the stallion to a pell-mell gallop.

  The Lakotas erupted in baffled yells. Two of them gave up their pursuit to catch the paint, but the rest rode faster than ever.

  Nate swiveled. There was no sign of Emmet Carter. He figured the man was a goner, and he was determined not to suffer the same fate. With the stallion under him, he at least had a prayer of eluding the Sioux.

  White Bark Creek wound to the left, so Nate bore to the right. Cold water soaked his moccasins and the bottom of his leggings as he angled into the water and barreled for the other shore.

  From out of nowhere hurtled a warrior. The man had a fusee, a trade rifle given to Indians for two to three times its value in prime plews. He pointed it and squeezed the trigger but nothing happened. The gun misfired. Undaunted, the Lakota wielded the fus
ee as he might a club.

  Pulling his other pistol, Nate shot the warrior squarely in the forehead. The Sioux fell into the creek with a tremendous splash. The riderless horse halted. Seconds later Nate gained the top of the far bank and hurried into the trees before the bowmen could get his range.

  Over ten Lakotas swarmed into the water, each eager to be the one who counted first coup.

  Both Nate’s flintlocks were empty. Since it was next to impossible to reload on the fly, he shoved the second one under his belt so his hands would be free for handling the reins. Bit by bit he widened his lead.

  Even if Nate got away, his problems were just beginning. Thanks to Carter, the Lakotas were alerted to the presence of enemies in their country. War parties would be sent out from every village. Soon the territory would be swarming with hostiles. The Crows and his family would be lucky if they got out alive.

  The tree line appeared. Once past it Nate would rely on the stallion’s superior endurance to save his bacon. A glance over a shoulder revealed the nearest warriors were not quite close enough to let their arrows fly.

  In no time, glistening grass enclosed him. Nate spied a ridge to the east and made for it. The stallion’s brief rest had rekindled its customary vigor, and it was flowing over the ground with a smooth, powerful gait.

  When next Nate checked, the Lakotas were so far behind, their bows were useless. His confidence growing, he smiled and began to plot how best to rejoin his family. Quite clearly he would have to do most of his traveling at night, laying low in ravines and gullies during the day.

  Inexplicably, the Sioux commenced hollering and howling as if they were demented wolves. This went on and on, without letup.

  Unable to comprehend why and thinking it might be a ruse, Nate watched them closely. They were spreading out wider than ever, a pointless act in his estimation, since they had no hope of overtaking him. One of them had a rifle which he pointed at the clouds and fired off.

  It made no sense.

  Then an answering shot sounded on the ridge, and Nate faced front to discover another dozen or so warriors on the crest. Already they were fanning out, too, working in concert with the Lakotas behind him.

  “Damn!” Nate exploded, wheeling the stallion to the south. He had almost made a fatal error.

  The warriors to the west were trying to head him off. Several were well out ahead of the main pack and smacking their quirts against their mounts like men possessed. Those on the ridge were farther away, but the slope lent them speed as they poured down onto the flatland.

  Nate checked to verify his knife was still in its sheath. If they caught him, he was not going to go down without a fight. There would be none of the useless posturing Carter had done. It would be do or die time, as the saying went.

  The stallion, as always, responded superbly. Few horses were its equal, as it demonstrated to the Lakotas by racing beyond the reach of those about to close the trap.

  An arrow flashed in front of Nate’s face. The lean warrior responsible quickly began to notch another shaft but stopped at a shout from a fellow Sioux. Yet a third man was about to throw a lance but lowered the weapon instead.

  Nate did not like that one bit. It meant they wanted to take him alive, and their only reason for doing so would be to torture him at their leisure later on.

  Some tribes, like the Apaches, were known to relish inflicting torment on captives. Often it was done to test the mettle of their enemies. Those who held up well, who did not whimper or plead for mercy, were usually accorded a quick death to honor their bravery. But those who caved in were treated to even worse abuse; they could scream and beg all they wanted and all their captors would do was laugh at them.

  The Blackfeet were notorious for torturing trappers. They had a long-standing grudge against white men which stemmed from a clash between members of the Lewis and Clark expedition and several warriors.

  According to the stories Nate had heard, the Lakotas were not as partial to torture. At least, they were known to adopt captive women and children into their tribe and treat them as if they were full-blooded Sioux. Male captives, though, were seldom so fortunate.

  The pounding of hooves resembled the din of a buffalo stampede. Swirling clouds of smoke rose in the wake of the Lakotas. Their long hair whipped in the wind, lending them the aspect of a horde of painted demons.

  Suddenly the terrain itself turned against Nate. A wide gully appeared before him. He had no other option but to slow briefly as he negotiated the steep slope. Then he bore to the left and sped madly around a bend and along a straight stretch rife with dry brush and loose earth.

  The Lakotas were elated. Their yells rose to the clouds as they pursued him along the rim.

  Nate earnestly sought some way up out of the gully on the other side. But the slope was too sheer for the stallion to climb, perhaps too sheer for a man to scale.

  Praying that there would be a break in the wall somewhere, Nate rushed around a sharp turn to the southeast and saw one. Only it was on the same side as the Lakotas. No sooner did he thunder past it than a quartet of warriors reached the gully floor.

  The stallion picked that moment to stumble. Nate was nearly unhorsed as its head jerked low and its hind quarters rose in a bounding hop. He was able to stay on, but it had given the warriors an opportunity they were quick to take advantage of.

  Lakotas were on both sides, so close they could reach out and touch him. One on the right did, trying to snag his arm, but Nate tore free and swung a backhand blow that missed.

  The warrior on the other side instantly lunged and caught hold of Nate’s leg. Nate felt himself start to spill to the right. Spinning at the waist, he slammed a fist into the Sioux’s elbow and the man released him. But the very next second the warrior on the right attempted once again to seize a limb.

  Constantly swinging back and forth, Nate held them at bay. He couldn’t do so, however, and hold the big black to a gallop. Gradually he slowed, which turned out to be just the thing the Lakotas were waiting for.

  A third Sioux pressed in close behind the stallion. In his one hand he held a coiled length of buffalo hide rope. In the other he gripped a small noose which he now swung rapidly in a tight circle.

  Nate noticed the man, but most of his attention was claimed by the pair trying to pluck him from his saddle. The brave on the left swooped in closer than ever. Turning, Nate arced back his fist to land a solid punch.

  With a deft flip, the third Lakota sent the small noose sailing neatly over Nate’s hand. The buffalo hide settled around his wrist, constricting when the warrior gave the rope a stiff tug. Nate tensed every muscle in his arm to resist the rope’s pull, but it was a lost cause. Especially when the warrior brought his mount to a sliding stop.

  There was a terrible spasm in Nate’s shoulder, and he became airborne. Yanked clear off the stallion, he saw the earth rushing up to meet his face. The pain was exquisite. Marshaling his wits, he struggled to sit up and tear the rope off, but before he could the sky seemed to rain Lakotas, warrior after warrior pouncing on top of him until they bore him down by the sheer weight of their numbers.

  Nate’s last conscious sensation was of a tremendous blow to the head. Then a black void engulfed him.

  Eight

  Wi-No-Na of the Shoshones woke up with a start. She had been having a terrible dream in which her husband was being slowly strangled by a dozen pair of brawny hands at once. She had not seen the faces or even the bodies of his killers, only those awful hands.

  Profoundly disturbed, Winona rose onto her elbows. Beside her in the cradleboard slept little Blue Flower, as beautiful as only a sleeping child could be. Nearby lay Stalking Coyote, his rifle at his side. Across the fire dozed the Crows, except for Bull Standing With Cow, who was keeping watch. He had moved off a score of feet and sat on the stump with his back to the low fire.

  Rising, Winona pulled her blanket tight around her slender shoulders and walked over to him. The aged warrior looked up at her, his featur
es as sorrowful as any she had ever seen. There was no need to ask what he had been thinking about.

  “You are up early,” the Crow signed.

  Winona shrugged.

  Bull Standing With Cow gazed off into the darkness to the south of their camp. “I understand. I am very worried about your husband also. He should have rejoined us by now,”

  “He promised us he would catch up and he will.”

  The warrior sighed. “Is that your head talking or your heart? We both know that nothing short of death would keep him from your side. I am afraid that if he does not show by sunset today, we must fear the worst.”

  “I will never give up hope.”

  “As well you should not,” Bull Standing With Cow signed. “You are a credit to your man. In many ways you remind me of my own woman when she was much younger. I trust your Grizzly Killer knows how lucky he is?”

  Winona changed the subject. “One more day of delay will not make much difference. But you saw He Dog earlier. He will not want to sit around here much longer. How do you propose to control him?”

  “Control He Dog?” Bull Standing With Cow said, and chuckled softly. “I might as well try to control a great brown bear or a mad bull buffalo. No one can tell him what to do. At best, we can try to convince him that it is better for everyone if we lay low for a while longer. Whether he will agree is impossible to predict.”

  “You should not have brought him.”

  “I knew it was not a smart thing to do,” the Crow admitted, “but I was desperate. Of all the warriors who survived the Lakota attack, only nine agreed to go with me. I could not afford to refuse him.” He paused. “And there was another factor I had to take into account.”

  Winona’s female intuition served her in good stead. “Your daughter?” she guessed.

  Bull Standing With Cow blinked. “Yes. He Dog has shown an interest in her for some time. Soon she will be eligible, and I expect he will court her.”