So did Zach. But as his horse began to turn, one of its front legs stepped into a dark hole. The resulting snap resembled the breaking of a large dry branch. A wavering whinny issued from the animal’s throat as it pitched into a roll. Zach saw the ground sweeping up to meet him and frantically dived to the right so he wouldn’t be crushed. A flying leg hit him in the side, jarring the breath from his lungs. He barely heard the tremendous crash nor a second louder snap.
Winona reined up and sprang to the ground before her horse came to a complete stop. She dashed back to her son, kneeling as he tried to sit up. “Be still,” she cautioned. “You might have broken bones.”
Zach let her probe to her heart’s content while his swimming senses returned to normal. His vision cleared and he saw the stricken horse on its side, wheezing as blood gushed from its open mouth. The left front leg looked as if someone had taken an iron mallet to it and pulverized the bone.
“Can you stand?” Winona asked. He appeared to be unhurt, but she had known warriors who took spills and were never the same in the head again.
“I’m fine,” Zach said. His mother helped him stand, regardless. He took a few tentative steps. Other than a throbbing bruise on his arm and a pulled muscle in his calf, he felt fit. Nodding at the horse, he said, “What do we do about him?”
The humane thing to do was put the animal out of its misery. But a gunshot would give them away to the Lakotas. Winona started to draw her knife. “We must do it quietly,” she said.
“Let me, Ma.” Zach moved in front of her and hunkered. The horse looked up at him with wide, anguished eyes. “I’m sorry, fella,” he said softly. “I tried to avoid the dam burrows.” His blade could split a hair; slitting the horse’s throat posed no problem.
Now they had to ride double. Zach swung up behind his mother and was face to face with Evelyn, who grinned in impish glee. He held onto the sides of the cradleboard as they bore to the south, well shy of the prairie dog colony.
Winona did not let on that she was greatly concerned. The extra weight would tire the horse quickly, calling for frequent stops to rest. And if the Sioux caught sight of them, they couldn’t possibly outrun those swift war horses.
Long into the night the pair put mile after mile behind them. At dawn they halted, but only briefly. Winona fed her daughter, Zach stretched his legs, then off they rode.
“We will keep going until we reach Red Willow Creek,” the Shoshone declared. “There, we can hide and decide what to do next.”
Morning gave way to afternoon. The day was hot and their horse plodded wearily along. Winona stifled yawns and occasionally shook herself to stay awake. Her daughter was asleep, and Zach had his eyes closed and was propped against the cradleboard when pinwheeling black dots high in the sky drew Winona’s interest.
The dots were birds. Big birds. Presently Winona discerned that they were buzzards circling above their next meal. The scavengers of the wild were as common as buffalo, and she had no interest in going to investigate until she saw a chestnut horse all by itself, grazing near where one of the birds landed.
Letting her son sleep on, Winona made for the spot. The chestnut heard them and looked up but did not run off.
Eight or nine buzzards were clustered on a body. The only part of the man not covered by the big ugly creatures was his feet. The scavengers grew restless as Winona approached. A few squawked at her in irate annoyance for interrupting their gory repast. Winona simply ignored them.
One of the birds took a few awkward steps and launched itself into the air, its great wings flapping loudly. It was the signal for the rest to do the same. Not a single buzzard remained when Winona drew rein.
Yellow Owl lay on his back, his arms outstretched. He had been dead for quite some time. From his left side protruded an arrow. The angle suggested that he had turned to look at the pursuing Lakotas and been struck under his arm. Apparently he’d been able to keep on riding and had eluded the Sioux, but eventually the wound had proven fatal.
The buzzards had been thorough. The Crow’s eyes, nose and ears were gone, as were both lips and his tongue. His stomach had been sheared open, and his intestines hung in partial loops. The fleshy parts of his shoulders and thigh had also been consumed. In some places, bone gleamed through.
Winona did not care for her children to see the grisly remains, so she went on. But someone already had.
“I hope to high heaven I never end up like him,” Zach commented. “I can’t stand the thought of those varmints pecking away at my innards.”
“They serve a purpose, like everything else,” Winona reminded him.
“I reckon so, but picking bones clean of rotten flesh isn’t a purpose I’d go bragging on.”
Winona had to laugh.
“I suppose He Dog and those other two are buzzard bait by now, too,” Zach said. Picturing them being eaten made him queasy.
“I would say so, yes.”
Zach recalled the terrific fight He Dog had put up. “You know, Ma,” he said, “I never did like that contrary Crow very much, but if anyone asked, I’d have to say he went out like a warrior should.”
“He was a credit to his people,” Winona concurred, and meant it. She had been raised to believe that a man’s worth was measured by his courage, and there could be no doubt that He Dog had shown his inherent bravery at the end.
For the rest of the day and into the gathering twilight, the Shoshone woman pushed their mount. When, at long last, she beheld the trees bordering Red Willow Creek, she brought the horse to a canter.
The woods were quiet when they arrived. At first Winona did not take note of it. She sat on a log and satisfied Blue Flower’s hunger while Stalking Coyote took their mount to drink. Only when she was sitting there, slumped in fatigue, and had time to think, did Winona realize it was eerily silent. Birds should have been singing. Insects should have been buzzing and flitting about.
At the edge of the water, Zach saw his mother stiffen. With a start, he divined why. He brought his rifle to bear, scouring the vegetation for hostiles or beasts.
Deep in the brush, something moved. A shadowy figure appeared, then another, and two more.
Winona leaped up and spun to confront them. Zach ran over next to her, whispering, “More Lakotas, Ma! It has to be!”
But the boy was wrong. Smiling broadly, into the open walked Nate King. His wife and son took one look and were in his arms, hugging him close, too choked with emotion to speak.
“About time the three of you showed up,” Nate said in mock gruffness. “We were about to set out and find you.”
“We?” Winona repeated, moisture rimming her eyes.
From the cottonwoods emerged Two Humps and Flying Hawk. Behind them came Bull Standing With Cow, his arm around the shoulders of a pretty young girl.
“Fetches Water?” Winona exclaimed, and when her husband nodded, she said, “But how?”
Nate escorted his loved ones to the clearing. They talked on and on, sharing their experiences. Winona and Zach laughed when he told how he had flown to Fetches Water after hearing her shriek, only to find her in the arms of her father.
The Crows were saddened to hear of the deaths of their four friends. Bull Standing With Cow pledged to help the families of the slain men as best he could.
“As for you, Grizzly Killer,” the grateful father addressed Nate, “I will never forget what you have done for me. From this day on, we are brothers. Whatever is mine is also yours, and if I can ever help you, just ask.”
Earlier that day, Flying Hawk had dropped a buck. Ample meat was left over, so Winona and Zach helped themselves, the boy wolfing large gulps.
Shy of midnight, the Crows turned in. Nate and Winona strolled to the creek bank to be by themselves. The trapper placed his hands on her hips and drew her close, then paused as her lips were about to touch his. Their son had walked up. “Something wrong?” Nate inquired.
“I was just wondering,” Zach said with an air of innocence they knew only too
well.
“About what?”
“This summer. I think it would be nice if we spent some time with the Crows.”
Father and mother exchanged knowing looks, “any special reason?” Nate probed.
Zachary King, otherwise known as Stalking Coyote of the Shoshones, gazed with a rosy gleam in his eyes at the sleeping form of the beautiful Absaroka girl by the fire and said with a straight face, “No. Not really.”
About the Author
David L. Robbins was born on Independence Day 1950. He has written more than three hundred books under his own name and many pen names, among them: David Thompson, Jake McMasters, Jon Sharpe, Don Pendleton, Franklin W. Dixon, Ralph Compton, Dean L. McElwain, J.D. Cameron and John Killdeer.
Robbins was raised in Pennsylvania. When he was seventeen he enlisted in the United States Air Force and eventually rose to the rank of sergeant. After his honorable discharge he attended college and went into broadcasting, working as an announcer and engineer (and later as a program director) at various radio stations. Later still he entered law enforcement and then took to writing full-time.
At one time or another Robbins has lived in Pennsylvania, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Montana, Colorado and the Pacific Northwest. He spent a year and a half in Europe, traveling through France, Italy, Greece and Germany. He lived for more than a year in Turkey.
Today he is best known for two current long-running series - Wilderness, the generational saga of a Mountain Man and his Shoshone wife - and Endworld is a science fiction series under his own name started in 1986. Among his many other books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions of Wilderness, Davy Crockett and, of course, White Apache.
More on David Robbins
WILDERNESS DOUBLE EDITION
21: BLACK POWDER
22: TRAIL’S END
By David Robbins Writing as David Thompson
First Published by Leisure Books in 1995
Copyright © 1995, 2017 by David Robbins
First Smashwords Edition: December 2017
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.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
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