“Nothing,” White Bear stated.
All eyes were on Nate as he began removing his garb. He untied his moccasins first and tugged them off, then raised his buckskin shirt. The strain of reaching his arms over his head speared agony through his body but couldn’t be helped.
“Hurry, white dog,” White Bear declared, using his favorite expression again.
Nate gripped the top of his pants, then paused to glance at the chief. “Must I wait for a signal to begin?”
“You may begin whenever you like,” Medicine Bottle revealed.
Good, Nate thought, and bent at the waist as he peeled the buckskin pants from his pale legs, first the right, then the left, deliberately moving slowly, letting them think he was embarrassed or cowed or scared to death or whatever they wanted. Just so they didn’t suspect his ulterior motive. They’d expect him to hesitate, to be afraid to enter the gauntlet, and they would be off their guard.
Nate extended his right arm, let the pants fall, and suddenly took off in full stride, his arms and legs flying, staying stooped over to present a smaller target, his eyes darting right and left. The ruse worked. He was past the first two men on each side before the rest awoke to the deception with bellows of rage. From behind him came White Bear’s roar. He ignored the noise and concentrated on the warriors. If his attention lapsed for a heartbeat he was dead.
A lean Blackfoot stood on the right, a war club in the hand that he now raised overhead.
Nate saw the man’s shoulder muscles tighten and knew the swing was coming. He dodged to the left, nearer the other row, and the club descended, nicking his arm. Ignoring the pain, he pressed on.
On the left was another warrior, this one wielding a tomahawk and grinning in anticipation.
In two bounds Nate was there, twisting to confront his foe as the tomahawk arced down toward his forehead. He leaped in closer, using his left forearm to block the descending swipe, and planted his right fist on the tip of the warrior’s nose, flattening him.
Onward he went, never slowing for an instant because to slow down meant he would never see Winona again, never know the joy of a majestic high-country morning once more or witness the radiant hues coloring the heavens as the sun rose and set.
The next Blackfoot had a war club.
Nate ran directly at the man. Part of the rules, if such there were, seemed to entail that the Blackfeet could not stray into the middle of the gauntlet; they must attack from their appointed spots on the sides. Most runners probably stayed in the center and were easily cut down, but he had no intention of doing the same. The Blackfeet weren’t going to get him without a battle they would long recall.
Whooping loudly, the next warrior hefted his club and carefully gauged the distance before swinging. Nate didn’t bother trying to deflect the Blackfoot’s arm this time. He went for the war club, his hands rising to meet it and grasping the wooden handle just below the pointed stone attached to the top. The tip of the stone came within an inch of his left eye before he checked its momentum. He wrenched on the weapon, striving to disarm his foe, but the warrior held on with all his might and hissed, delaying him when he must not be delayed, so instead of continuing to pull he simply let go.
Taken unawares, the warrior’s own strength and stance worked against him and he stumbled backward away from the line.
Keep going! Nate’s mind screamed, and he did, cognizant of a pain in his side but suppressing the sensation as he closed on another warrior on the left, a skinny man with a long-handled tomahawk.
The man drew the weapon back, his teeth exposed in an animal snarl.
This time Nate knew he must do something different. That long handle ruled out the direct approach, so he tried a clever ploy, waiting until the warrior started his swing and then diving at the man’s legs, diving under the sweeping tomahawk and tackling the skinny Blackfoot. They both went down, Nate winding up on top, and he drove his fists in a furious flurry, pounding the warrior’s jaw and stunning him. Lunging, Nate grabbed the tomahawk from the man’s limp fingers, rose, and raced toward the end of the rows.
The remaining Blackfeet appeared disconcerted by the unique maneuver.
Nate wasn’t going to give them the chance to gather their wits. He swung the tomahawk wildly, screeching like a madman, darting at each man in turn, and in turn the first three ducked aside rather than engage him. The rest held their ground and swung their weapons, but they were hampered by having to stay on the side and the fact most of them carried shorter clubs or tomahawks, which put them at a costly disadvantage. Stone and metal and wood clashed, clanged, and smacked together, and in a swirling rush of motion Nate swept past all but the last pair.
They were braced, these two, the man on the left with an eyedagg, a weapon incorporating a wooden handle and an angled metal spike at the end, while the man on the right held a war club.
The man on the right was Red Elk.
Nate had seen White Bear badger the younger warrior, goading the youth into taking a position in the line. Although he hadn’t understood the words, he’d guessed that White Bear had called Red Elk’s manhood and loyalty to the tribe into question. Under the probing stares of his fellow warriors, Red Elk had had no choice but to take a spot.
And now here he was, ready to attack.
For an instant their eyes met, and Nate registered commingled hurt and anger before Red Elk’s club descended toward his brow. He blocked the blow with the tomahawk and instantly pivoted to face the other Blackfoot, who surprised him by leaping forward and employing the eyedagg with both hands in an overhand strike.
Nate ducked to the left, evading the spike, and at the moment he shifted he saw Red Elk materialize in the very spot he’d just vacated. He tried to shout a warning, but he could do nothing more than gape in shocked horror as the eyedagg struck Red Elk between the eyes and bored several inches into the warrior’s flesh and bone.
Red Elk’s eyes widened, his arms went limp, and his entire body quivered violently.
The other Blackfoot, aghast at his mistake, gaped at his tribesman in an appalled daze.
Enraged at Red Elk’s senseless death, Nate buried the edge of his tomahawk in the Blackfoot’s neck, severing a vein or artery, causing blood to gush out. He yanked the blade out and dashed past the sputtering Blackfoot, into the open, wondering if he would get an arrow or a ball in the back before he covered ten yards. Incredibly, he didn’t, and he focused on the stunted pine, running all out.
The reality of his achievement sank in. He’d done it! Survived the gauntlet! But he still had to outrun three fleet Blackfeet when he was already in pain and winded. The naked soles of his feet padded on the grass and weeds. Occasionally he stepped on a sharp stone or twig and flinched. No matter how much it hurt, he determined he wasn’t stopping for hell or high water.
Harsh shouts arose to his rear.
Nate was tempted to look back and see if White Bear and the others had violated the agreement, but he didn’t want to break his stride. Twenty yards beyond the stunted pine grew a verdant expanse of woodland. If he could reach those trees, he might be able to shake the trio of avenging furies.
He glanced at a snow-crowned peak to the south and succumbed to momentary despair. Even if he should, by some miracle, elude White Bear, Crooked Nose, and Buffalo Horn, how was he going to survive alone and naked in the wilderness, his sole weapon a tomahawk? If he encountered a grizzly the outcome would be a foregone conclusion.
Nate drew nearer to the pine. His left foot came down hard on a sharp stone and he stumbled, almost going down. He reestablished his running rhythm and sped on, feeling moist drops on his left sole. The stone had cut him. He hoped the laceration wasn’t serious because he couldn’t stop to check.
Each second became an eternity as he ran, ran, ran. Nate was still five yards from the stunted pine when tremendous cheers from the vicinity of the lake heralded the unleashing of the undoubtedly eager pursuers. He didn’t bother to look until he reached the forest and paused to
gulp in air.
The three incensed Blackfeet were bounding in pursuit, White Bear in the lead.
Spinning, Nate dashed into the woods and immediately angled to the east, weaving among the trees, thickets, and boulders. Broken limbs and shattered branches lay in profusion on the ground, any one of which could tear open his feet and legs, and he was kept busy avoiding such normally harmless obstacles.
After traveling twenty yards Nate slanted to the south again, opting for a zigzag course to make tracking him more difficult, hopefully slowing down the warriors. Despite his best efforts he was repeatedly jabbed and speared by the vegetation he passed, crisscrossing his skin with tiny red slash marks.
Nate glanced over his shoulder time and again, but saw no sign of the Blackfeet. As the minutes went by and the trio still didn’t appear, he became mystified. Blackfeet warriors, like most Indians, were fast runners. A lifetime spent in the wilderness, of hunting and raiding and living on the raw edge of existence, hardened Indian men and endowed them with extraordinary speed and stamina. He should have seen them by now. Why hadn’t he?
Think!
He tried to reason as they would, plan as they would. Since they had seen him race to the woods, White Bear and the other two were aware of his own capability. Perhaps they had reasoned they couldn’t hope to overtake him, which seemed a ridiculous notion but was the only explanation he could think of.
What would they do then?
Think!
They must know the lay of the land better than he did since they had selected the lake as a rendezvous point. Was it possible for them to get ahead of him? Was there a shortcut? He grinned at his stupidity. Here he was, fleeing due south along the verdant basin of a valley. There was no way they could take any shortcut that would bring them in front of him.
Still puzzled, Nate raced deeper into the woods, farther from the war party. Every stride he took raised his confidence a notch higher. Once he escaped, he could devote his attention to securing clothing and food.
A twig snapped off to the right.
Gazing in that direction, Nate gasped in astonishment at spying one of the Blackfeet forty feet away, parallel with his position, effortlessly keeping pace. Bewildered, he glanced to the left and saw the warrior who had taken the Hawken an equal distance away. The Blackfeet weren’t trying to overtake him; they already had! Now they were playing with him before moving in for the kill!
Chapter Seventeen
Nate instantly increased his pace, his sinews straining, his feet thudding on the ground.
Both Indians did likewise, each grinning wickedly.
Ahead appeared a low knoll.
Nate slowed a bit and saw them do the same. The chilling realization that he was at their mercy aroused a spark of self-recrimination. What a fool he’d been! White Bear must have selected the fastest runners in the war party, warriors who could easily overtake him, who didn’t need to stick to his exact trail. For that matter, they’d undoubtedly surmised he would be heading back into the heart of Ute country, which meant going south.
Damn his idiocy!
The recrimination changed to indignation. He resolved to fight to the last. Since he couldn’t hope to outrun them, he must resort to strategy. But what to do? He gazed at the knoll and an idea blossomed.
Both warriors were still staying abreast of him.
Good. If they continued to do so, they would each skirt the knoll, one passing by on the right, the other the left, leaving him to go up and over. For a few seconds as he neared the top he would be out of their sight.
Nate gripped the tomahawk handle tighter and steeled his body. He made the knoll and started up, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead so he wouldn’t give away his intentions. When only three yards from the top he quickly looked to both sides and watched the warriors spring past the sides of the low hillock. Abruptly halting, he wheeled to the left, bent at the waist, and ran toward the bottom, not stopping until he came to a wide tree and crouched in the shelter of the trunk.
He envisioned the two Blackfeet stopping and gazing in confusion at the crest of the knoll when he failed to appear. They would naturally hasten back to investigate his disappearance. If the Great Mystery smiled on him, they would simply retrace their steps. The warrior carrying his rifle would pass within a few feet of his position. The rest would be up to Nate.
He peeked around the trunk and tingled at the sight of the warrior already heading back and staring in perplexity up at the knoll. Since the man’s nose bore no evidence of a break, he deduced this one must be Buffalo Horn.
The Blackfoot trotted slowly, the Hawken in his left hand. He wore only buckskin pants and moccasins. On his left hip hung a knife in a beaded sheath.
Keep coming! Nate thought.
Clearly confused, Buffalo Horn raised his right arm and waved.
Nate looked and saw Crooked Nose, an arrow notched to the bow he held, rounding the opposite side of the knoll, similarly searching. Crooked Nose returned the wave and shook his head. Nate glanced at Buffalo Horn.
The Blackfoot was ten feet away, eyes roving over the slope, probing every shadow, every nook and cranny. He rotated slowly to the left, gazing to the south, his back to the tree.
Nate might never have a better chance. He launched himself from concealment and charged, the tomahawk uplifted, and heard Crooked Nose shout a warning.
Buffalo Horn whirled and started to level the rifle, amazement lining his features.
I’m not going to make it! Nate thought. He still had six feet to go and the Hawken was almost even with his stomach, so he did the only thing he could think of; he threw the tomahawk at the Blackfoot’s head. Having never thrown a tomahawk before, he expected to do no more than force the warrior to duck and buy himself the seconds he needed to reach the Blackfoot. He certainly never expected to score a hit. But he did.
The tomahawk flew end over end and the razor-sharp blade caught Buffalo Horn full on the nose, splitting both nostrils and eliciting a scream from the terrified man. The tomahawk stuck fast, and Buffalo Horn let go of the rifle and grabbed the handle to yank the weapon out. Blood flowed copiously.
Nate dove, landing on his right shoulder and rolling the final yard to rise to his knees at Buffalo Horn’s feet, his fingers closing on the Hawken.
The warrior staggered backward and wrenched the tomahawk free, the suction producing a bubbling sucking sound. His eyes fluttered and his knees buckled. Groaning, he sank down and fell onto his left side.
Nate started to rise as an arrow streaked from his right and missed his head by a hair. He twisted to find Crooked Nose racing toward him.
His face betraying rabid rage, the Blackfoot was notching a second arrow on the bowstring.
Up came the Hawken in a practiced, fluid motion. Nate sighted squarely on the warrior’s chest, cocked the hammer, and fired. The booming blast was sweeter to his ears than the most melodious music ever created by mortal man.
The ball took the Blackfoot dead center, the impact lifting him from his feet to crash onto his back. Crooked Nose tried to rise, staring down at the neat, bloody hole in the middle of his chest, then collapsed without a sound.
Silence gripped the forest.
Nate looked from one to the other, thinking they might still rise, that he couldn’t possibly have defeated them both. After a minute he stood and walked over to Buffalo Horn, convinced he had triumphed. Two down and one to go.
One to go!
White Bear was out there somewhere.
With a start Nate scanned the woods on all sides but saw nothing. Chiding himself for his negligence, he knelt and stripped his powder horn and ammo pouch from Buffalo Horn. He slung both across his chest and hurriedly reloaded, breathing a sigh of relief when the ball and patch were finally shoved home down the barrel. He replaced the rod and scoured the forest again.
Where was White Bear?
He took a step, and his glance fell on the pants and moccasins the dead man wore. Crooked Nose was slightly sm
aller, but the clothes might fit. He crouched and removed them, then slid into the pants. They were tight but serviceable. In moments the moccasins covered his sore, bleeding, blistering feet. The knife and tomahawk were around his waist. He headed south.
Nervously fingering the trigger, Nate constantly scoured the vegetation for some sign of his enemy. Why hadn’t White Bear been with the others? Or had White Bear been out there somewhere and witnessed the whole incident? If so, why hadn’t the Blackfoot tried to aid his fellows? The many questions were an annoying distraction, so he shook his head to clear his mind and devoted his full attention to simply staying alive.
Nate covered a quarter of a mile without seeing White Bear. He entertained the idea that the warrior had taken a different course from the others and must be far away.
A mile later he climbed to the top of a rise and stared down at the valley. He could see the lake and smoke curling up from the campfires, but there were no Blackfeet on his heels. Allowing himself the luxury of a victory smile, Nate turned and continued over the rise into the next valley. He had to descend a boulder-strewn slope, moving among giant rocks ten and twelve feet in height. The warm air felt nice on his skin. He touched the arrow wound and found it to be sore.
Halfway down the slope he was compelled to pass between two huge boulders with barely enough space between them for him to squeeze through. He lowered the rifle to his side and eased into the notch, the rough stone scraping his back and chest, then stepped into the clear.
Nate hefted the Hawken and took a pace. A scraping noise to his right made him start to rotate, but a heavy object smashed into the back of his head before he could complete the move. Brilliant points of lights danced in front of his face, dazzling him, and his legs went weak. He tottered and dropped to his right knee, pressing the rifle on the ground for support.
A gleaming streak of light seemed to come out of nowhere and something struck the rifle barrel a jarring blow, severely stinging his hand and knocking the gun loose. He blinked frantically, trying to regain control, and stiffened when the hard point of a slender weapon touched his neck.
Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3) Page 13