Another rifle discharged.
Please let them be alive! Nate prayed. He slowed as he neared the animals so he wouldn’t spook them, and stepped to the mare to hastily remove her hobble. Sliding on the bridle took another moment. He swung onto her and hauled on the reins, breaking into a gallop immediately, and rode across the clearing, passing the fire en route.
Two Owls was gone.
A brief dizziness assailed him as he plunged into the trees. Fortunately his head cleared and he could concentrate on avoiding low limbs and entangling thickets. The mare responded superbly, as she always did, her hooves pounding, dirt flying.
Nate covered fifty yards before he detected movement out of the corner of his right eye and glanced to the south to behold the Ute riding hard to catch up. The grin creasing the warrior’s mouth served to confirm his intentions were friendly, and Nate allowed the man to draw alongside the mare. Together they raced on.
Anxiety distorted Nate’s perception of time. It seemed as if only a few minutes elapsed between leaving the camp and arriving at the west bank of the stream, although the sweat lathering his skin and the mare testified to a longer duration. He halted and looked both ways.
Two Owls pointed northward and used sign language to say, “We must go that way.”
Relying on the Indian’s superior instincts, Nate turned and rode along the waterway, traveling two hundred yards before he spied several traps lying in the grass. Goading the mare forward, he practically vaulted from her back to crouch beside the three Newhouses. Under no circumstances whatsoever would Shakespeare or Baxter leave prized traps unattended. He scanned the forest on both sides of the stream and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Two Owls climbed from his black stallion and bent over to inspect the ground. He grunted and his hands flew. “There has been a fight here. See how the grass is bent?” He touched a patch of crushed blades. “Many Indians and two whites fought.” “How do you know there were two whites?” The Ute pointed at Nate’s moccasins. “White men do not walk as Indians do. Your kind carry too much of their weight on their heels and tread heavily. My people always walk lightly like the wolves and the big cats.”
Nate looked at the ground, wishing he could read sign with such skill. “What else can you tell me?”
“The whites ran into the trees that way,” Two Owls said, and nodded to the west.
Springing onto the mare, Nate rode off. If the Ute was right, then his friends must be hoping they could lose their pursuers in the woods and swing around to the camp. But was it Blackfeet or Utes doing the pursuing? If the latter, his temporary truce with Two Owls might well result in an arrow in the back.
The answer was discovered unexpectedly.
They had ridden for only a minute, always bearing due west, when the mare neighed and shied away from an object in her path.
Nate reined up and looked down to discover a buckskin-clad body sprawled in the weeds. Fearing the worst, he slid to the earth and stood over the corpse. Sweet relief brought an unconscious smile at recognizing the dead man was an Indian.
Dropping from the stallion, Two Owls knelt and rolled the man over. “A Blackfoot dog,” he said.
A crimson-rimmed hole in the center of the warrior’s forehead revealed the cause of death. A few inches from his left hand was a war club.
“We must be very careful,” Two Owls advised. “The Blackfeet will return for this body.”
“They must be close,” Nate said, and remounted to lead the way, moving slower, his rifle across his thighs.
Not so much as a chipmunk chattered in the surrounding forest. The patterns of Nature had been disrupted, transforming the normally vibrant woodland into a silent expanse of motionless vegetation.
Where were his friends? Nate chided himself for not insisting on accompanying them. If they were dead, his guilt would be boundless. He spied a hill not far off, and scrutinized its tree-covered slope to no avail.
Two Owls fell behind a few yards.
Nate decided to go over the hill instead of skirting it. Once on top he’d have an unobstructed view of the countryside and might spot the frontiersman and the Ohioan. With that in mind he urged the mare up the gradual slope, following a game trail, and he was almost to the crest when he heard the alien sound.
Laughter.
Harsh, gloating laughter.
Jerking on the reins, Nate took the mare into a dense stand of saplings and halted. The Ute joined him.
Slowly the laughter and chuckles grew louder. Distinct voices could be heard, talking excitedly.
The language was unfamiliar to Nate, and he deduced it must be the Blackfoot tongue. Twisting, he gazed toward the top, and shortly thereafter six warriors appeared, all in good spirits as if intoxicated by the flush of victory. They made their way down the hill and to the east, apparently going to retrieve the body of their comrade.
Nate watched them in horror. If the Blackfeet were so happy, there could only be one reason. Shakespeare and Baxter must be dead. He suddenly felt weak again and sagged, holding onto the pommel for support. Dazed by the magnitude of the calamity, unable to formulate a plan of action, he sat there until Two Owls poked him in the arm. With an effort he turned.
“What is wrong with you?” the warrior inquired.
“My friends ...” Nate began, and his hands slumped.
“Your friends are probably still alive.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The Blackfeet love to torture even more than they love to kill and steal, and they are very fond of tormenting whites. They might have taken your friends alive.”
Nate had raised his arms to express his pessimism when more conversation came from the other side of the hill. Tensing, he riveted his eyes on the crest until additional Blackfeet showed up and counted them as they came over. Two. Four. Five. A few seconds went by, and then the sixth person walked into view and Nate wanted to shout for joy.
Shakespeare had his arms bound behind his back. His hat was gone, his hair tousled, his weapons missing. He stepped proudly, his chin jutting defiantly.
After the mountain man came Thaddeus Baxter. His arms were also tied, his flintlock was gone, and a nasty gash marked his left cheek. His strides were unsteady and he blinked a lot.
Nate rashly gripped the reins firmly to charge for cover, his emotions getting the better of his reason, but he was jolted back to reality by the appearance of even more Blackfeet.
Three sturdy warriors brought up the rear, two armed with bows, the third with a fusee. They were clearly ready to fire if the captives made a bid to escape.
Reluctantly, Nate let them all pass. The odds were simply too great, fourteen to one in favor of the Blackfeet. Fourteen to two if he counted Two Owls on his side. When the party disappeared in the forest below, he glanced at his newfound companion. “What will the Blackfeet do next?”
The Ute answered with the certainty of one who knew his lifelong enemies well. “They will bury their dead. By tomorrow they will be on their way back to their village where your friends will be put to death.”
“How long will it take them to reach their village?”
“Perhaps twelve suns. Less if they travel fast.”
The information gave Nate an idea. Apparently Shakespeare and Baxter were safe enough for the time being, at least until they reached the village. His wisest recourse was to shadow the war party and wait for an opportunity to effect a rescue. Twelve days was a long time. A lot could happen.
“What will you do?” Two Owls asked.
“I will follow the Blackfeet and free my friends.”
“Alone?”
“If I must.”
The reply caused the Ute to straighten. “This is not my fight.”
“I know.”
“I have a family waiting for me.”
“I know.”
“I cannot help you, Grizzly Killer,” Two Owls said, and frowned. “I truly wish I could.”
Although his hopes were dashed, N
ate kept his face impassive and shrugged. “I understand.”
“You are not angry?”
“Why should I be? You have been honest with me. They are my friends; I must save them.”
Two Owls stared into Nate’s eyes, then wheeled his horse and looked back. “I go now. I will tell my people what has happened and try to convince them to send a war party to stop the Blackfeet, but I do not know if they will come if it means helping whites.”
“I can ask no more,” Nate signed.
“May the Great Mystery guide your footsteps.”
“And yours.”
A curt nod and a wave and the Ute was gone.
The enormity of the mountains seemed to weigh down on Nate’s shoulders and shook his head to dispel a gloomy premonition of disaster. He was alone. So be it. But he could accomplish what had to be done if he stayed alert and exercised single-minded determination.
He rode slowly down the hill and dismounted at its base. Taking hold of the reins he hiked eastward, proceeding with the utmost caution, until he spotted the war party. Two of the warriors were carrying their deceased fellow warrior as the band walked toward the stream. Keeping well back, Nate trailed them, stopping when they halted on the west bank of the stream.
The Blackfeet compelled Shakespeare and Baxter to sit, deposited the body near them, and set to work making a camp.
Were they planning to stay the night right there? Nate wondered. If so, it would give him time to return to the camp, load the pack animals, and return before daylight. He watched from concealment as they used their tomahawks to chop off and strip long, straight limbs that were arranged in a conical shape much like their buffalo-hide lodges. Three of these improvised forts were constructed, and when they were completed Shakespeare and the Ohioan were rudely shoved into the middle fort and two guards were posted.
A tall, lean warrior evidently was in charge. He had issued instructions to the others during the building of the forts, and now he dispatched four of his tribesmen to the north, possibly to do some hunting. His frame and his mien set him apart, as did one other factor. In addition to a bow and arrows, he carried an extraordinary weapon tucked under a slender leather cord looped about his slim waist: a gleaming sword.
Nate was too far away to note the shape of the hilt, but from the general outline he surmised the sword must be Spanish. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the Blackfoot had come to possess it, unless a war party had once conducted a raid down toward Santa Fe, which was highly unlikely because of the vast distance involved. Another possibility occurred to him. Many years ago the Spanish had mined much gold of the central Rockies. If the Blackfeet had attacked a gold train or mining camp, the sword could have been taken from a helpless conquistador and bequeathed from father to son, generation to generation.
Once satisfied the Blackfeet truly intended to remain at their camp for quite some time, Nate stealthily moved to the southwest, mounted when the forts were out of sight, and headed off at a gallop.
He realized the lives of two brave men were in his hands, and formulated various plans for saving them, everything from picking the Blackfeet off one by one to setting their forts on fire in the middle of the night. No matter how he looked at the problem, there was no way to liberate Shakespeare and Baxter without running the risk of losing their lives.
Nate’s stomach reminded him he needed nourishment if he was to replenish the vitality he’d lost due to his injuries. His convalescence had been cut short just when he needed to be at the peak of his strength, and a grueling journey to Blackfoot territory promised to aggravate his condition.
He stopped twice to orient himself, and had begun to doubt he’d traveled in the right direction when he spied a wisp of smoke curling above the treetops. Thank goodness the camp was far enough from the Blackfeet so they hadn’t noticed it!
Nate relaxed and slowed the mare to a walk. There was no sense in overexerting her until the need arose.
He estimated a half hour would be required to load all the pack animals and string the horses in a line. In an hour or so he could be back there watching over his friends.
He thought about Two Owls, and speculated on whether the Utes would help. Given their longstanding hatred of trappers, he doubted they would lift a finger.
Soon the clearing was visible, the campfire dying down, the horses standing near the spring, the packs undisturbed.
Nate rode into the camp and hopped down. No sooner did his moccasins touch the ground than a savage shriek shattered the stillness to his rear, and pivoting he saw a mounted Indian bearing down on him with an upraised lance poised to throw.
Chapter Eight
Nate instinctively raised the Hawken to fire, but in a flash of insight he realized the sound of the shot would carry to the Blackfeet and might lead them to his location. Instead of squeezing the trigger he darted to the right and dived for the ground. In his ears drummed the pounding hooves of the warrior’s mount, and a second later something brushed his right shoulder and thudded into the earth at his side.
A tremendous whoop issued from bloodthirsty lips as the Indian bore down on him.
Rolling to the left, Nate tried to push erect. A heavy body slammed onto his back, stunning him, driving him down again, and he lost his grip on the rifle. Knees gouged him in the spine and strong hands looped around his chin from behind. He dimly realized the man was trying to break his neck, and frantically flipped onto his right side while at the same instant he whipped his left elbow back and around.
The warrior grunted and was sent flying.
Nate scrambled to his knees, struggling to clear his thoughts, keenly aware he must prevail or perish. Twisting, he saw the Indian springing at his chest, and managed to jerk aside at the last moment.
Exceptionally agile, the warrior came down on his hands and knees and almost in the same motion jumped erect, drawing a tomahawk before he straightened.
Pushing to his feet, Nate saw his attacker’s face clearly for the first time, and was shocked by the unbridled hatred displayed. The tomahawk arced at his head and he skipped to the left, his hands dropping to his pistols. Again he changed his mind. He must slay the warrior quietly, and the only way to do so was by using his butcher knife. With the thought his knife leaped from its sheath.
Hissing in fury, the Indian swung the tomahawk several times in succession, relying on his weapon’s greater reach.
Forced to retreat, Nate dodged the swipes and countered with his knife, striving to slash his foe’s abdomen or chest. The warrior deftly deflected the blade every time, increasing the temptation to employ the pistols. Try as he might Nate couldn’t break through the other’s defenses. To compound his predicament, his arms grew steadily more fatigued. If he wanted to survive he must do something and do it quickly.
An idea struck heartbeats later. Since he had the shorter weapon and couldn’t hope to stab the Indian in the torso, why not take advantage of the knife’s lighter weight and ease of handling?
Enraged by his failure to kill, the Indian swung wildly.
Nate backpedaled further, biding his time, and when the warrior overextended a swing and exposed the arm holding the tomahawk, he was ready. The knife flicked straight out and speared into the Indian’s wrist, cutting deep and causing blood to gush forth.
If Nate expected the wound would prompt the Indian to surrender or flee, he was sadly mistaken. To his surprise the warrior shifted the tomahawk to the other hand and renewed the assault more furiously than before.
Now the fight became a desperate battle of endurance. Would the Indian weaken first from the loss of so much blood or would Nate collapse from the strain to his system?
Nate sensed he couldn’t hold out much longer, and gambled everything on a last-ditch effort. He deliberately let his adversary get a little closer, let the tomahawk miss his stomach by a hair, and lunged forward to plunge his knife to the hilt below the warrior’s sternum.
Gasping, the Indian stiffened, staggered, and clutched at Nate
’s wrist. Eyes widening, the warrior attempted to raise the tomahawk for a final blow, but his limbs betrayed him. He groaned as his legs began to buckle.
With a sharp tug Nate tore the knife free and stepped back to watch the Indian sink to the grass. The man rested on his knees, his hands going limp, and released the tomahawk. Nate kicked the weapon out of reach.
Defiant eyes were turned to the youth and a string of words were barked in an unknown tongue.
“You must be a Blackfoot,” Nate signed wearily.
Not a sound came from the warrior, who doubled over and pressed both hands to his midriff.
Nate wanted to put the man out of his misery, and considered plunging the knife in again. But he needed answers, and the only one who could supply them was rapidly dying. He nudged the Indian with his left foot.
Up snapped the warrior’s chin, his lips curled in a snarl.
“Who are you?” Nate signed, holding the hilt of the bloody knife with just the last two fingers on his right hand. “Why did you try to kill me?”
Gritting his teeth, the Indian moved his arms awkwardly. “White dog! You have more luck than ten ordinary men.”
“Who are you? What tribe are you from?”
The warrior answered with difficulty, his fingers fluttering unsteadily. “I am proud to be a Blackfoot. One day we will kill all white dogs.”
“Are you part of the war party I saw a while ago?”
“You saw my brothers. I am part of White Bear’s band.” The Blackfoot paused, breathing raggedly, and signed his spite. “I pray the maggots eat your intestines before another moon passes. May the vultures feast on your rotten heart and the worms on your flesh. You are—” he began to sign, and gagged, his mouth slackening. His eyelids quivered, his tongue protruded, and he pitched onto his face.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 6