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

by Robbins, David

  He lowered the bow and continued running to the west. After twenty yards he halted and from the shelter of an oak tree checked on the ambusher. Beyond discerning an outline of the man’s body, he couldn’t identify who it was. The killer appeared to be concentrating on the tree Nate had vacated.

  Now came the difficult part. He braced his legs, tensed, and focused on a tree across the way. Once committed, he would be in the open for a good thirty feet. If Newton or Lambert spied him, there would be plenty of time for whichever one was trying to kill him to place a perfect shot.

  Nate bolted, sprinting as quickly as humanly possible through the high snow, his progress retarded by the clinging white fluff. He didn’t bother glancing toward the killer. Any distraction, however brief, slowed him marginally. Run! he mentally shouted at himself. Run like you’ve never run before.

  To his utter amazement, Nate reached the sheltering woods without being shot. He squatted beside a pine and beamed at the prospect of gaining the upper hand. Exercising extreme caution, he advanced slowly toward the tree screening his foe. He moved in a crouch, waddling through the snow at times, always making certain there was undergrowth or a tree between him and the ambusher. Knowing the snap of a single twig would give him away, he was especially careful not to brush against any branches.

  At last he drew within twenty feet of his quarry, pausing behind a waist-high boulder to tighten his grip on the arrow and the bow. All he had to do was jump up, aim, and let the shaft fly.

  Nate straightened, the bow sweeping up, the arrow level. There stood the tree in question. There were the tracks in the snow leading from the woods to the tree, and the packed snow at the base of the tree that indicated the man had indeed been at that spot. But there were no tracks leading away and the killer himself was nowhere in sight.

  Mystified, Nate moved around the boulder. Where could the ambusher have gone? Was the man employing the same tactic he’d just executed and now their positions were reversed? He scanned the forest but saw nothing.

  Damn.

  Nate stepped toward the tree, intending to search the area where he’d first gone to ground. He took several strides when he heard a distinct click to his rear and a mocking voice declared triumphantly:

  “Make one move and you’re a dead man!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Nate became a statue. The voice sounded close enough to convince him that if he tried going to the right or left, a ball would pierce his back before he could hope to whirl and fire.

  “Wise man,” the voice taunted. “Now drop that bow and put your arms in the air.”

  Frowning, Nate complied. He recognized the speaker as Lambert before he pivoted. The killer smirked and pointed the Kentucky at his chest.

  “So we meet again. Fancy that,” Lambert joked, coming to within six feet and halting. “I’ve heard of being hard to kill, but you’re worse than any grizzly that ever lived. No wonder they call you Grizzly Killer.”

  “You know who I am?” Nate said to keep the killer chatting. Why hadn’t Lambert simply shot him and been done with it?

  “We figured it out,” Lambert answered. “Actually, Newton did. Then that squaw of yours got to bragging about how you’d be after us before long and we decided one of us should come back and plant you in your grave real personal like.”

  “Have you harmed my wife?”

  “Your squaw is fine, Indian lover. We’re not about to lay a finger on her since we plan to give her to the Utes.”

  Anger made Nate clench his fists. “Put down that gun and we’ll settle this man to man.”

  “That head shot must have addled your brains,” Lambert said, and snorted. “I’ve got the drop on you and I intend to keep it until I’m ready to send you to meet your Maker.” He wagged the Kentucky. “How does it feel knowing your life is in my hands?”

  Nate didn’t bother to answer.

  “I could have killed you when you were trying to sneak up on me but I didn’t want to spoil my fun,” Lambert went on. “I’m fixing to take my time, make you suffer a little first.”

  “You’re mighty brave when you’re up against an unarmed man,” Nate commented.

  Lambert’s gaze dropped to Nate’s waist. “You’re not exactly unarmed, are you? Use one hand and drop that knife and the tomahawk. And no sudden moves unless you want a ball in your head.”

  Easing his right arm downward, Nate tugged the tomahawk free and let it fall into the snow. He used two fingers and pulled the knife from its sheath.

  Adopting a cocky attitude, Lambert nodded at the trail of tracks leading from the forest to the tree. “Pretty clever of me to walk backwards in my own footprints so you couldn’t figure out where I’d gone, huh?”

  “You’re brilliant,” Nate said, and started to lower the knife toward the ground, his eyes riveted to Lambert’s. The killer laughed and blinked. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it was all Nate was likely to get. Even as Lambert’s eyes closed, he gripped the knife firmly and flipped it straight at the killer’s face while hurling himself to the right.

  Lambert fired, but he squeezed the trigger while ducking to the left to avoid the knife and the movement threw his aim off.

  Nate felt the ball tear at the edge of his Mackinaw sleeve as it streaked past, and then he was bounding forward, taking the offensive, his arms extended. He slammed into Lambert, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist, and they both went down, the Kentucky pinned between them.

  Hissing like an enraged rattler, Lambert drove his knee into Nate’s groin. The blow landed squarely and Nate almost released his hold to try and roll away. Sheer grit sparked him to swing his right fist into Lambert’s jaw instead, rocking the man’s head back. He planted a left, the combination sufficient to cause Lambert to sag, stunned.

  Nate heaved to his feet, grabbing the Kentucky as he did and wrenching the rifle from Lambert’s grasp. He tossed it aside. No sooner had he done so, however, than Lambert kicked him in the stomach, doubling him over.

  “Damn you!” the cutthroat roared, and kicked again, sweeping his left foot into Nate’s neck.

  Staggered, Nate stumbled rearward.

  Lambert swept upright, his right hand clawing for the flintlock adorning his waist. “I’ll finish you off proper,” he barked.

  Ignoring his pain, Nate sprang just as the pistol swept clear of the belt. He batted the barrel away with his left forearm and rammed his right fist into his enemy’s mouth, knocking Lambert backwards.

  Again the trapper tried to bring the flintlock into play.

  Nate pressed his initiative to keep Lambert off balance, raining a flurry of blows to the man’s face, battering him without let up. He pummeled Lambert to his knees, then slammed his own knee into Lambert’s face.

  Down the tall man went, still gripping the flintlock.

  Pouncing on Lambert’s arm to pin it to the ground, Nate tore the pistol from the man’s grasp. No sooner had he done so, however, than Lambert desperately punched him on the throat. Had the swing been delivered with all of Lambert’s strength, it might have crushed Nate’s windpipe. As it was, Nate fell onto his right side, releasing the flintlock to clasp his neck, his features contorted in acute anguish, wheezing as he tried to breathe.

  Lambert scrambled to his knees, then jumped on Nate and tried to clamp both hands around the younger man’s neck.

  Although short of breath Nate resisted furiously, blocking Lambert’s hands and trying to return the favor by seizing the killer’s neck. They grappled and rolled, their faces inches from one another, with Lambert’s teeth exposed in an almost bestial snarl. They were evenly matched and the battle raged on for over a minute with neither one gaining an edge.

  Nate hurt everywhere. Try as he might he couldn’t prevail, and to make matters worse they rolled into a large tree, his spine absorbing most of the impact. He had to let go, gasping for air.

  Pushing erect, Lambert back-pedaled and began scouring the snow for the flintlock.

  Nate wasn’t
about to let him find it. Gritting his teeth, he shoved to his feet and charged. Lambert turned to meet him and tried to connect with a punch, but Nate evaded the man’s flashing arm. They warily circled each other, seeking an opening they could exploit.

  Blood seeped from Lambert’s crushed lips. He licked them and spat, his gaze never leaving Nate’s face. “I’m going to skin you alive,” he stated, the words slightly distorted.

  “First you have to beat me,” Nate retorted.

  In a savage onslaught Lambert attempted to do just that, making up in brute strength what he lacked in finesse. He flailed away, trying to beat Nate into the ground, but most of his blows were countered.

  Blocking the strikes made Nate’s arms ache horribly. He cast about for a stout limb he could employ as a club or anything that would serve as a weapon. A few feet to the left was a narrow, tapered hole in the snow where a heavy object had been tossed and sank down. Was it the flintlock? Praying such was the case, he summoned a reservoir of stamina and punched. One of his uppercuts scored, tottering Lambert rearward.

  Whirling, Nate dived at the hole and thrust his eager hands into the frigid snow, his fingers exploring for the flintlock. Instead, he touched slender cold steel and his right hand drew forth his butcher knife.

  Lambert shouted out in victory.

  Twisting, Nate saw the killer raising the flintlock from the snow. The man’s thumb curled around the hammer and started to pull it back. “No!” Nate cried, bounding at his adversary, the knife hilt clutched in his right hand.

  Elevating the flintlock, Lambert grinned.

  Nate was still a foot away when the tall man squeezed the trigger and they both heard the loud ticking sound of the flint as the firestone struck the steel pan. But there was no loud retort; the black powder didn’t ignite. It was a misfire, undoubtedly caused by wet snow fouling the piece.

  Because Nate was already moving at top speed, including his right arm which was spearing toward Lambert even as the killer pulled trigger, there was no time for Nate to alter the sweep of his hand, even if he wanted to. A heartbeat after the flintlock misfired, his knife sank to the hilt into Lambert’s chest with a muted thud.

  Lambert stiffened and jerked backwards, the useless pistol falling from his trembling hand, his eyes widening, shock transforming his face into a pallid mask.

  Nate released the knife and stood still, watching his enemy carefully.

  “Damn you,” Lambert exclaimed, taking the jutting hilt in both hands. He braced and heaved, extracting the blade cleanly, but in doing so he permitted his life’s blood to gush forth like a geyser, the crimson fluid spraying out from his chest and splattering his clothing and the snow at his feet.

  There were no words for Nate to say. He clenched his fists and waited for the inevitable.

  “Dear Lord,” Lambert breathed, flinging the knife down. He pressed his palms to the slit, vainly endeavoring to staunch the pumping blood. Gripped by sudden dizziness, he fell to his knees. “I’m dying,” he wailed. “I’m dying.”

  Nate’s features hardened.

  “Help me!” Lambert blurted frantically. “Please help me!” He made as if to reach for Nate, but the action only allowed the blood to gush faster. “Please!”

  “Good riddance.”

  Lambert was too terrified of the Grim Reaper to be mad. He coughed, red spittle rimming his lips, and doubled in half. “This can’t be!” he stated. “I’m not ready to die.”

  “Few ever are,” Nate said, retrieving both the flintlock and his knife.

  Lambert coughed again, violently, and leaned down until his forehead rested in the snow. “I feel so weak, so cold.”

  Satisfied the man no longer posed a threat, Nate went about collecting all their weapons. He held the Kentucky and smiled. It wasn’t a Hawken, but it would suffice for the job at hand. He went back to Lambert and listened to the killer’s labored breathing.

  “Grizzly Killer?”

  “Yes?”

  “My head is all fuzzy. I can’t seem to think straight.”

  “It won’t be long now.”

  Lambert twisted to look up. Blood was trickling from both corners of his mouth. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Depends.”

  “I—I have a sister in Ohio. Cincinnati. Her name is Christine Lambert. Will—will you get word back to her?”

  Frowning, Nate hesitated. Why should he do a favor for someone who had tried to kill him and stolen his wife?

  “Please, King. Write her a note, a line, anything,” Lambert pleaded, his voice quavering, his words barely audible. “She’s the only kin I have. I don’t want her worrying on my no-good account.”

  About to say no, Nate saw tears rimming the mountaineer’s eyes. A pool of blood soaked snow had formed under Lambert’s chest. “All right,” he said, and sighed. “I’ll send a line back East with the first person I meet who is heading to the States.”

  Lambert smiled wanly. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, and stiffened, uttering gurgling noises, his tongue protruding as he tried to suck in air. He attempted to speak one last time but produced an inarticulate grunt. His body sagged, his eyes locked wide open, and he ceased breathing.

  Nate waited a moment before stepping forward to verify the man had died. He wasted no time removing Lambert’s ammo-pouch and powder horn. Rising, he scoured the forest for the killer’s mount and spied the horse screened in the timber. He took several strides, then halted and glanced over his shoulder. Should he bury Lambert or simply leave him? Shrugging, he continued to the horse.

  The Almighty had made carrion eaters for a reason.

  ~*~

  Ike Newton had abruptly reined up and stared thoughtfully eastward. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Isaac Kennedy asked, stopping. He was in the lead. Behind him came the Shoshone woman, then Newton with the string.

  “I thought I heard a shot.”

  “I heard nothing.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Newton snapped. He glanced at Winona. “Did you?”

  “My husband has killed your friend.”

  Newton rode forward until he was beside her. “You don’t know that. You’re just trying to rattle me.”

  “I know,” Winona said softly.

  “Bull,” Newton declared, moving ahead of both of them, sick to death of Kennedy’s company and wishing he’d never decided to take the squaw along as a gift for Two Owls. He looked back once more, wondering if the bitch was right. Naw. She couldn’t be. Lambert had killed a couple of dozen Indians and whites in his time. He felt certain his friend had taken care of Grizzly Killer.

  They were moving slowly up a steep slope toward a narrow pass between two snow-covered mountains. Once beyond the pass they would be in a valley where Two Owls wintered.

  Newton idly scanned the shimmering peaks around them and spied a soaring hawk far off. He thought about the Ute chief and wondered whether the savage would double-cross them. If so, there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it. They’d simply have to take Two Owls at his word and hope for the best.

  He glanced at the Shoshone, pondering her devotion to the man called Grizzly Killer. She was a squaw, but she also possessed the kind of traits he most admired in a woman. What would it be like to be loved by someone like her? How did some men rate such sterling wives while others wound up with shrews? Secretly, he envied Nate King. If a fine woman had ever loved him, he might have amounted to something. A good woman’s love, he’d once heard a traveler at a tavern say, could make the difference between a happy life and damnation.

  Sighing, Newton cradled his Kentucky and focused on the pass. The depth of the snow increased the higher they went, and their horses were finding the going difficult.

  “Ike?” Kennedy spoke up.

  “What now?”

  “Suppose she’s right. Suppose Lambert is dead.”

  “He’s not.”

  “But just suppose he is. Maybe we should release her.”

  “Don’
t you ever give up?” Newton stated testily.

  “Hear me out. If King is after us, we serve our own best interests by letting her go. Once he has his wife back safe and sound, he’ll leave us alone.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because men like Nate King aren’t the kind to overlook a little thing like being shot and left for dead and having their wives taken. If it takes Grizzly Killer the rest of his born days, he’ll track us down.”

  They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence until they attained the pass, a gap no more than eight feet wide. There the snow lay only nine or ten inches in depth, thanks to the sheltering influence of the two mountains. On both slopes were huge boulders caked with snow.

  Newton reined up and waited for the others to join him. The squaw came up on his left, Kennedy the right. He gazed eastward and was surprised to spot a lone horse far in the distance galloping in their direction. “What the hell!” he blurted.

  Stopping, Kennedy twisted in his saddle and looked. “Is that’s Lambert’s horse?”

  “It’s impossible to tell at this range,” Newton said, although he believed the animal to be larger.

  Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no rider.”

  “I noticed.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Newton said, watching the horse plow steadily onward.

  “Should one of us go catch it?”

  “Isaac, you ask too doggoned many questions,” Newton barked. He hesitated uncertainly, and at that moment a chilling sound emanated from the left-hand slope, a sound every mountaineer dreaded.

  It was a low, guttural growl.

  Shifting, Newton glanced at the white slope and felt his blood turn to ice at beholding an enormous panther perched on top of a boulder a mere twelve feet away. Even as he laid eyes on the big cat it snarled and leaped at the Shoshone woman.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mounted on Lambert’s horse, Nate continued his pursuit. He had the bow and the quiver rolled up in a blanket behind the saddle. The reloaded Kentucky was in the crook of his right arm. And the flintlock had been added to the knife and tomahawk adorning his waist.