Tomahawk Revenge/ Black Powder Justice (A Wilderness Double Western Book 3)

by Robbins, David

  Nate’s nerves vibrated as he waited for the warrior to draw closer. Forty yards separated them. Then thirty. At twenty he hefted the snowball. At fifteen he saw the Ute suddenly look straight ahead and feared the man had seen his tracks.

  The Ute unexpectedly whipped an arrow from his quiver even as he elevated the bow, and a fraction of a second later the string twanged and the shaft leaped through the air.

  Only the arrow wasn’t aimed at Nate.

  Mystified, Nate glimpsed the streaking shaft as it sped in a beeline along the trail, passing his tree by a wide margin. He heard a thud attended by a peculiar squeal, and shifting to the other side of the tree he looked out to discover a jack rabbit smack dab in the center of the tracks, thrashing and convulsing with the arrow transfixing its wiry form.

  Concentrating on his kill, the Ute rode past the point where Nate had veered off to the tree and dismounted. The warrior placed the bow on the snow as he knelt beside the rabbit and drew his knife.

  Not one to waste a singular opportunity, Nate burst from concealment, his legs kicking up snow in a fine spray, the snowball in his right hand and the tomahawk in his left. He covered only a yard before the Ute looked up and saw him.

  Instantly the warrior’s cat-like reflexes came into play. In a smooth motion the man let go of the knife and scooped up the bow, his left hand darting for the arrows perched in his deer hide quiver.

  Nate covered five of the ten feet. He saw the arrow pulled clear of the quiver and he flashed his right arm back, then out again. The snowball flew from his chilled fingers, right on target.

  In the act of nocking the arrow to his bow, the Ute was unable to evade the projectile. With a sticky splat the snowball struck him full in the face, the snow getting into his eyes and nostrils, and he instinctively wiped at his face to clear his vision.

  No you don’t! Nate thought, and reached the warrior, the tomahawk upraised. He swung with all his might, using the flat side of the weapon instead of the razor edge, striking the warrior on the head above the ear.

  Stunned, the Ute crumpled.

  Nate yanked the man’s knife from its sheath and tossed it a few yards away. He stripped off the quiver, placed it on his own back, and picked up the bow. With the tomahawk in his right hand in case the Ute tried to interfere, he backed up to the Indian’s mount.

  The stallion shied nervously at Nate’s approach, its nostrils flaring.

  He spun and grabbed the reins in the same hand that held the bow. The powerful animal nearly tore them loose. He held on, though, and spoke in a soft, soothing voice. Gradually the stallion calmed down to the point where he swung onto its back without mishap. Tucking the tomahawk under his belt, he glanced at the warrior and nocked an arrow to the bowstring.

  The Ute was just sitting up, his hand clasped to his bruised head. He blinked, saw Nate, and surged to his feet.

  Nate trained the arrow on the man but didn’t pull the string back. He motioned with his head, indicating the warrior should move farther from the horse. The Ute reluctantly complied, glaring his animosity. When Nate was satisfied the man couldn’t possibly reach him before he could wheel and ride off, he lowered the bow.

  A string of harsh Ute words burst from the man’s mouth.

  Not knowing the Ute tongue, Nate shook his head and employed his hands in making sign language. No one knew exactly which tribe had originated the practice of signing. Indian legends had it that sign language had existed since the dawn of time. Winona had taught him well. He could converse as readily now in sign as he could in English. “I have no wish to kill you. Stand where you are and you will not be hurt.”

  The Ute’s response was short and to the point. “Horse thief.”

  “I am called Grizzly Killer. You have heard of me?”

  Stiffening, the warrior studied Nate for a moment. “Yes. You have killed many of my people.”

  “They were trying to kill me!”

  “Why are you stealing my horse?”

  “I need it. Bad white men have taken my wife and stolen my horses. I must find these men and kill them.”

  The Ute pondered the revelation for a bit before moving his arms again. “How many men are there?”

  “Three,” Nate answered, then thought to ask, “What are you called?”

  “Barking Dog.”

  Nate would have grinned if not for the fact he was well aware of the special significance Indians attached to names. An Indian child received its name soon after birth. The name selected might be that of a favorite animal of the parent, a noteworthy event that took place on the day the baby was born, or perhaps a name honoring a valorous deed the parent had once performed. While Indian women invariably kept the names bestowed on them at birth, the men often changed theirs to reflect a brave deed they personally accomplished, to commemorate their encounter with an unusual animal, or in observance of a special dream. There were exceptions, however. Any Indian born with a physical deformity was usually known more by a name that signified the deformity, such as Short Leg or Hump Back. Very few Indian children, though, were born deformed. “Do you know the mountain with twin peaks south of here?” Nate asked.

  “Yes,” Barking Dog responded. “We call them the Breasts of Life.”

  “Good. In two weeks I will deliver your horse at the small lake on the north side of that mountain. I will tie it to a tree on the north shore and you may get it then.”

  The Ute’s brow knit. “You will not keep it?”

  “No.”

  “And what is to stop me from waiting with many men from my village?”

  “Nothing. But a man of honor would not commit such a wicked deed.”

  Barking Dog smiled. “For a white man you are very wise.”

  “My wife is Shoshone. Maybe her ways have rubbed off on me,” Nate signed with a grin. “I am sorry I must take your horse. I threw your knife in the snow,” he disclosed, pointing at the spot. “So you can make a lance for your walk back to your village.”

  The Ute glanced at the spot and saw the knife hilt jutting in the air. “You are very strange, Grizzly Killer. Most whites would kill me and be done with it.”

  “Which village are you from?”

  Surprised by the question, Barking Dog cocked his head. “The village of Chief Eagle Horse. Why?”

  “I was curious,” Nate said, and started to turn the stallion.

  “Wait,” the Ute signed urgently.

  “What?”

  “Though you are stealing my horse, you spared my life. I owe you my life, and I cannot take such an obligation lightly. I will repay you now so I can kill you if we meet again after you return my stallion.”

  Now it was Nate’s turn to grin. “How?”

  “I have seen your wife.”

  A lightning bolt coursed through Nate’s body. “Where? When?”

  “Yesterday. Spotted Wolf and I saw three white men and an Indian woman. They must be the bad whites and your wife. They are not more than half a day’s ride from here.”

  “The woman was unharmed?”

  “Yes. We watched them for a while, then Spotted Wolf went to our village to get more warriors while I followed their back trail to see if there were more whites around.”

  “How long before Spotted Wolf returns?”

  “Four sleeps at the most.”

  Nate looked into the warrior’s dark eyes, silently conveying his gratitude, then whipped the stallion around and rode hard to the west. By nightfall Winona would be safe or else.

  Chapter Ten

  Lambert had gone over a mile when he found the tracks of a large horse emerging from the trees on the south. Since the hooves weren’t shod it had to be an Indian mount. He reined up and looked over his shoulder, trying to spot Newton and the others, but they had long since vanished into the forest.

  He had a decision to make. Should he continue to the King cabin or go warn his friend that savages were shadowing them? He decided to press onward. It was only one lousy Indian, after all, and he was
going in the same direction. With luck, he’d slay the savage and finish off Grizzly Killer.

  Gripping his Kentucky rifle firmly, he moved toward the valley where the King cabin was situated. Fear of an ambush prompted him to be extra alert. He constantly surveyed the woods ahead but saw only wildlife.

  A few black-tailed deer regarded him from a hill to the north before fleeing into the trees. At one point a golden eagle soared overhead. And once a lynx bounded across the trail less than forty yards away.

  Lambert covered two more miles. His mind started to stray as he thought about the unbelievable wealth that would soon be his. Ten thousand dollars! Maybe more depending on how good a bargain they struck with that crafty Two Owls. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected to possess such an incredible fortune. To him, or to anyone who barely eked out a living year after year, such a sum was a godsend.

  To think that he owed his good fortune to the worst mishap that could befall any trapper; being captured by hostile Indians. If Newton and he hadn’t taken a chance a year ago and ventured deep into Ute country to do their trapping, they never would have been captured by a war party of Utes. Then they would never have been taken to Two Owls’ village and Newton would never have had the opportunity to make his desperate pitch to the chief.

  Lambert chuckled. The most amazing moment in his life had been when Two Owls agreed to the deal. Of course, Newton had no intention of making good. His friend had made the proposal simply as a last-ditch means of saving their lives. In fact, one of the other Utes had been sharpening his knife to take Lambert’s hair when the inspiration struck Newton.

  Good old Newton.

  They’d joked about their narrow escape all the way back to St. Louis, vowing never again to go anywhere near Ute country. Then Newton had taken it into his head to visit his kin in New York City, and on the way back had met Isaac Kennedy.

  Now look at them.

  Soon they would have more money than they could earn in nine or ten seasons of trapping. Soon they—

  What was that?

  Lambert abruptly reined up as he spied a horseman far off to the east. The rider was moving at a reckless pace, his horse throwing up a wide wake of white spray. He hunched low over the pommel and moved into the trees on the right side of the trail. Dismounting, he looped the reins around a branch, cradled the Kentucky in his arms, and walked to the tree nearest the tracks. Concealed there, he peered out and studied the man, anticipating it would be the Indian who had been shadowing them.

  His first observation was that the man rode a stallion. The sheer size of the horse precluded it being a mare. An Indian horse, he guessed, and gleefully anticipated putting a ball into the bastard’s head.

  Then he saw the hint of red in the man’s coat.

  Red?

  As in a Mackinaw?

  Lambert tensed, recalling the Mackinaw in the King cabin, hanging on the wall.

  No, it couldn’t be!

  Even if the rotten squaw was right about her husband being alive, there was no way that King could be in pursuit so soon after being shot.

  Lambert nervously licked his lips, his eyes narrowing. If that was indeed Grizzly Killer, then the man wasn’t human. Lambert had seen the wound caused by his ball. He’d leaned down and laughed into King’s face after shooting him. Blood had been pouring onto the floor.

  That couldn’t be Nate King!

  Uneasy, Lambert watched the rider come ever closer. He saw the Mackinaw clearly, saw the big man astride the stallion, and swallowed a lump that formed in his throat. It was King.

  He shook his head, dispelling his anxiety. So what if Grizzly Killer had survived? Another ball would do the trick, and this time Lambert intended to make doubly certain that the son of a bitch breathed his last before bearing the good news to Newton.

  He checked the Kentucky, even going so far as to tamp the ramrod down the barrel to verify the ball and patch were properly placed at the bottom and ready to fire. Satisfied, he replaced the ramrod and cocked the hammer.

  Let the Grizzly Killer come.

  Lambert was ready.

  He cradled the Kentucky again and leaned against the trunk, studying the lay of the land to determine how close he should let King get. Since he didn’t want to miss, the closer, the better. Twenty to twenty-five yards should be about right. He noticed a tree on the north side of the trail that appeared to be about that distance off. Fine. When King came abreast of the tree, he’d shoot.

  Hell, it would be easy.

  Lambert grinned and idly observed King’s rapid progress. The man was pushing the stallion to its limits, evidently in a hurry to reach his squaw. Lambert snickered contemptuously. He despised Indian lovers. To him, every buck and squaw in the West deserved the same treatment; extermination. No trapper or mountaineer would be safe as long as the Indians were allowed to exist. One day, he reasoned, the Indians west of the Mississippi would suffer the same fate as the Indians east of the Mississippi. They would either be killed off or driven from their lands. It couldn’t happen soon enough to suit him.

  King was now a quarter of a mile distant.

  Crouching, Lambert braced the rifle barrel against the tree. He trained the sight on the approximate spot Grizzly Killer would be when he pulled trigger.

  The cold air tingled his nose and made him want to sneeze. He pinched the tip of his nose together to nip the sneeze in the bud. Even the faintest of sounds sometimes carried far in the Rockies and he was taking no chances on alerting King.

  He recalled the stories that old fart had related about Grizzly Killer. No less a personage than Shakespeare McNair, one of the premiere mountain men, had taken King under his wing and educated him in the ways of the wilderness. King was supposed to be a crack shot and utterly fearless. The Shoshones and the Cheyennes in particular held him in great respect. And the Blackfeet, it was rumored, wanted King’s hair more than any other white man’s because Grizzly Killer had been instrumental in helping a band of Shoshones defeat a war party led by a noted Blackfoot warrior.

  King rounded a stand of small pines and came directly toward Lambert’s position. Grinning, he held the Kentucky steady and lightly touched his finger to the trigger.

  Any moment now.

  ~*~

  Nate held his body close to the stallion, squinting to compensate for the bright glare of sunlight reflecting off the mantle of snow. He heard the arrows bouncing slightly in the quiver and hoped none would fall out. When he overtook the cutthroats he might need every single shaft.

  His body pained him terribly but he ignored it. Every now and then his head took to throbbing. The agony would subside after a spell, though.

  He scanned the trail ahead as he rode, seeing the line of tracks made by Barking Dog near those made by the party bearing westward. Then he noticed another set. Straightening, perplexed, he saw where a second set of prints had paralleled the trail for a considerable distance stretching back in the direction the killers had gone.

  What did it mean?

  As he drew nearer he discerned that this second set had angled away from the trail and into the trees to the south. Had Barking Dog lied? Had the other Ute accompanied Barking Dog this far and then headed for their village?

  He glanced at the tree line, mystified, observing the sunlight glint off the tip of a thin horizontal branch. Simultaneously came the chilling realization that branches were incapable of reflecting sunshine.

  Rifle barrels, on the other hand, could.

  So superbly coordinated were Nate’s reflexes that the very instant he saw the glinting object and perceived it to be a rifle, he threw himself from the stallion, diving to the right, and he was scarcely out of the saddle when the booming of the ambusher’s weapon proved his instincts correct. Landing on his right shoulder, he rolled upright and sprinted toward the woods. Two arrows fell out as he rolled but the rest stayed in the quiver.

  The stallion continued galloping westward, spooked by the rifle blast.

  Nate reached a tre
e in five bounds and darted behind its bole. He crouched, slid an arrow out, and nocked it. Who was out there? he reflected, catching his breath and letting his racing blood slow down. Very few Indians owned rifles, and most of those who did were dwellers of the plains. Not more than a dozen Utes all told, he estimated, owned a firearm, which made the likelihood of his attacker being an Ute warrior extremely remote.

  There was only one logical conclusion: Either Newton or Lambert had backtracked.

  He peered out, searching the vegetation opposite for his adversary. A hint of motion prompted him to jerk his head back a fraction of a second before a rifle cracked and the ball smacked into the tree.

  Whoever it was, the man could reload quickly.

  Nate glanced over his shoulder, debating whether to seek sanctuary in the forest and make the killer come after him. If he had a rifle instead of a bow, he would naturally stand firm. But he’d not wielded a bow regularly since he was much younger and felt at a grave disadvantage. He stared at the shroud of smoke hovering beside the tree where the killer was concealed, wishing it would dissipate on the wind so he could see his enemy. Then it occurred to him: If he couldn’t spot the ambusher, neither could the man spot him.

  Suddenly dashing to the right, staying bent at the waist, Nate ran from tree to tree, expecting to hear the boom of the rifle at any second. Traveling a dozen yards, he stopped behind a pine tree and knelt to study the forest on the other side of the trail.

  There lingered enough smoke to partially obscure the trunk, but the left leg of the man bearing the rifle was in full view.

  Nate raised the bow and sighted on the killer’s limb. He breathed shallowly so the tip of the arrow would hold steady, then pulled the string back to his cheek, straining his arm to its limit. About to fire, he hesitated.

  What if he missed? He would alert the ambusher to the fact he’d moved. Since he couldn’t guarantee he could hit the leg, perhaps he should try to work his way around the man and come up on the killer from the rear.