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

by Robbins, David

  The fight had taken a lot out of him. He felt alternately weak and strong, clear-headed and slightly dizzy. As much as he longed to rescue Winona, he must not push himself excessively hard for fear of passing out again. He concentrated on staying with the trail, holding the horse to a steady but not rapid pace.

  The tracks left by Barking Dog’s fleeing stallion were freshly defined in the snow, and from the length of its gait it appeared the animal had no intention of slowing any time soon.

  Nate forged ahead, alert for more Indians or his quarry. The trail was winding toward a pair of mountains miles off. From the extensive trapping he had done in the area during the fall, he knew a pass existed between those peaks and beyond it lay a valley where game was plentiful.

  The thought of game reminded him about food and made his stomach rumble. He debated whether to stop and decided not to waste precious time hunting. There would be ample opportunity to eat after he rescued Winona.

  As he rode his mind drifted. He speculated as to whether he’d made a blunder by settling in a cabin situated so remotely. If he took Winona to St. Louis, for instance, they’d be a lot safer during the winter months. But the trips back and forth would be extremely taxing, and they’d be compelled to deal with the ugly specter of bigotry. There were plenty of whites who despised Indians, no matter which tribe they belonged to. And if something should happen to him while there, Winona might find herself alone in a strange city and forced to rely on the kindness of total strangers.

  He’d previously given serious consideration to wintering with Winona’s tribe. The Shoshones would be delighted to have them in their village during the colder months. Except for the ongoing raids by the Blackfeet and the Utes, there would be little danger.

  However, he had to confess that he preferred to stay right where he was, in their cabin. Yes, they were at the mercy of the elements. Yes, they were in constant danger of attack. And yes, they could well starve. But the cabin was their home, and he’d rather take his chances there than anywhere else.

  The time passed slowly. The brightness of the snow hurt his eyes and made them water.

  What if he went snow blind? A chronic ailment of trappers who spent winters in the Rockies, snow blindness often came on suddenly and sometimes took up to a week to go away. The only cure was resting and staying indoors in subdued light. Even then, those who recovered complained for a long time afterward that everything they looked at was enveloped in a reddish haze.

  To go snow blind now would doom Winona to captivity among the Utes and force him to try and return to the cabin. He squinted, making his eyes thin slits. The less light that struck them, the lower the risk of injury.

  The time seemed to crawl by.

  He still had a couple of miles to go before reaching the two mountains when a faint retort reached his ears from the vicinity of the pass. His pulse quickened. Newton and the others must be in trouble, which did not bode well for Winona. He goaded Lambert’s horse to go faster and forgot about keeping his eyes narrowed against the glare.

  ~*~

  Rarely seen by Indians and mountaineers, the largest cats in the Rockies were known for their reclusive nature. Often over seven and a half feet long from the tip of their nose to the end of their tail, they sport a tawny coat with small dark patches on the backs of their tapered ears and accenting their whisker patches. These cats were referred to as panthers by the majority of the trappers. A few called them catamounts. Others used the French word for such felines, calling them cougars, while some had taken to speaking of the huge cats as mountain lions.

  By any name they were trouble when aroused or hungry, and no one knew this fact better than Ike Newton. Seven years ago, while trapping near Sweet Lake, he’d tangled with a panther that had tried to take a beaver caught in one of his traps. He’d managed to scare the critter off with a shot from his pistol. But this time he couldn’t afford to miss.

  At the moment the panther launched itself into the air, Newton was bringing the Kentucky up while thumbing back the hammer. With the squaw between the cat and him, he didn’t have much of a shot. He simply elevated the barrel in the general direction of the hurtling beast, pulled trigger, and hoped for the best.

  The panther’s tapered claws were within a foot of Winona’s face when the heavy lead smacked into the cat’s brow. The hit fell right between its slanted eyes and flipped the animal rearward in a tight loop. Its two hundred and fifty pound body crashed down into the snow headfirst and it lay perfectly still.

  A few of the packhorses shied, compelling Newton to grip the lead tightly.

  Winona hadn’t so much as budged. She simply stared at the dead cat, her features stone like.

  “I say!” Kennedy blurted. “That was remarkable shooting, Ike.”

  “I was lucky,” Newton responded gruffly, annoyed at how close he’d come to losing his gift for Two Owls.

  The storekeeper edged his mount nearer to the cat. “I didn’t know panthers attacked people.”

  “Ordinarily they don’t,” Newton confirmed. “I figure it was going for her horse and she was just in the way.” He snickered. “Which is a break for me.”

  Kennedy glanced at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Now I don’t need to worry about the squaw sticking a knife in my ribs while I’m sleeping. She won’t do a damn thing to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just saved her life, you idiot, and Indians are real particular about such things. Save a buck or a squaw and they owe you for life. And if they happen to be your enemy in the first place, then they can’t kill you until they repay the favor,” Newton said, and laughed merrily. “I could hand her a gun and she wouldn’t even shoot me.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Kennedy declared. “Considering the dangers in this wilderness, she should have the means to protect herself.”

  “Isaac.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not really fixing to hand a gun over to her.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Move out,” Newton barked, and did just that, taking the lead. He would have been better off shooting Kennedy, he irately reflected. Newton had traveled almost to the end of the pass before remembering that his Kentucky was empty. Stopping, he moved back to the first pack horse and removed Nate King’s loaded Hawken from the blanket in which he’d rolled it before departing the King cabin. He stuck the Kentucky in the pack and examined the Hawken.

  He’d heard generally favorable reports about Hawkens. Manufactured by Jacob and Samuel Hawken of St. Louis, they were reputed to be highly reliable and extremely accurate in competent hands. Their only drawback was their weight. A few trappers who had purchased Hawkens later sold the rifles because they were too heavy to be toting all over the Rockies. This despite the fact that Hawkens were much shorter than conventional long rifles, the typical Hawken having a thirty-four inch barrel while the average Kentucky sported a barrel of forty-four inches.

  There was one other advantage Hawkens possessed over the Kentucky and Harper’s Ferry rifles. Hawkens used the newfangled percussion system of firing instead of relying on the spark of a flint on steel to ignite the black powder.

  He hefted the rifle, liking its sturdy feel, then realized the Shoshone was glaring at him. Without looking at her he wheeled his horse and resumed their journey.

  It took them a while to work their way down from the pass to the valley below. The going was slippery and several of the pack animals nearly lost their balance. Once on level ground they rode rapidly toward a stream and followed the winding ribbon of water into a dense forest.

  Newton felt on edge. He had no guarantee that Two Owls’ warriors wouldn’t shoot on sight and there was always the risk of running into Utes from another village since their hunting ranges tended to broadly overlap. To compound the danger, Blackfeet war parties frequently invaded Ute territory. Running into those devils would decidedly ruin all of his well-laid plans.

  He glanced up at the sky a
nd glimpsed the afternoon sun through the canopy of limbs overhead. If Lambert didn’t return by nightfall, then he would be inclined to believe the squaw; his friend truly had been rubbed out. If so, he could expect Grizzly Killer to show up sooner or later, probably sooner. A man whose wife had been abducted seldom dallied when seeking vengeance.

  For the next several hours they walked deeper into the long, sinuous valley, heading toward the far end some twenty miles distant where they might find Two Owls’ encampment. The snow under the trees lay to a depth of two feet or more and the packhorses at times had to struggle through higher drifts up to their chests. No one bothered to speak during all this time. Each of them was immersed in thought. Winona rode with her back straight, her chin jutting defiantly. Kennedy frequently gazed at her when he felt certain she wouldn’t notice. Occasionally he would cast a dark look at his partner.

  The sun hung just above the western horizon when Newton finally raised his right hand to call a halt as they were entering a wide clearing on the south side of the stream. “This is where we’ll camp,” he announced.

  “At last,” Kennedy breathed, sliding to the ground near the water. He surveyed the vast, wild domain of Indians and wildlife and sighed. “When will we find Two Owls?”

  “How should I know?” Newton responded, waiting for the squaw to dismount before doing the same. “We’ll find him when we find him.”

  “Someone who didn’t know better might swear you don’t have the foggiest idea where to locate him.”

  Newton took an angry stride toward the storekeeper, then drew up short in disgust. “This isn’t the civilized East, Isaac. It’s not like New York City or Ohio where you can make a business appointment, then sit down at the appointed time to discuss selling or swapping your goods. I told Two Owls I’d look him up after I got the items he wants. For all he knows, I’m not even coming.” He paused. “Frankly, I was shocked when he agreed to let us go. He must really want the merchandise.”

  “Of course he does,” Kennedy said. “He’ll have more than all the other tribes combined. Why, he could even prevent the Blackfeet from invading his territory.”

  “Prevent them, hell. He can march on up to Blackfoot country and drive the bastards clear into Canada.”

  Winona, who had been listening with interest to the discussion, glanced at the wooden crates. There were four on each pack animal, bringing the grand total to twenty-eight. “What are in those?” she inquired.

  Newton snorted. “Well, look who’s decided to be civil.” He jabbed a thumb toward the crates. “It’s none of your damn business what’s inside those crates, and if I find you poking around where you shouldn’t be, I’ll slit your throat. Savvy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t slit her pretty throat, would you?” Kennedy asked apprehensively.

  “I sure as hell would. Killing squaws and bucks is the same as killing any animal.”

  “But Indians are people, the same as us.”

  “Indians are nothing like us, idiot,” Newton stated harshly. “They’re heathens, plain and simple. Didn’t you hear what President Jackson said? He called Indians an inferior race who should be pushed aside to make room for us whites.”

  “I read an account in the newspaper,” Kennedy said.

  “There you have it. When the President of the United States, no less a man than Old Hickory, calls Indians inferior, then they’re damn well inferior,” Newton snapped. “It’s our duty as white men to rub every last one out.”

  Kennedy stared at the crates. “Is that one of the reasons you’re trading with Two Owls?”

  “Hell yes. He’ll use these to wipe out every enemy he has, and those enemies are mostly other tribes. We’re doing our part to reduce the Indian population.”

  “You said ‘mostly’,” Kennedy noted. “Won’t Two Owls use them against trappers also?”

  “Probably,” Newton said with a shrug. “But it will serve any trapper right for being stupid enough to be caught by the Utes.”

  “But you were caught by the Utes once.”

  “Don’t quibble, Isaac. Why, if President Jackson knew what we were up to, he’d likely give us a medal.”

  “Then why are you worried about the Army finding out?”

  Newton hefted the Hawken and scowled. “You ask too damn many questions. A man has got to learn when to keep his mouth shut out here or he’ll wind up eating lead.” He nodded at the horses. “Get busy watering and feeding our critters.”

  “Why don’t you do it?” Kennedy responded indignantly.

  “Because one of us must keep an eye on the squaw to see she doesn’t try and slip away,” Newton said. “And since I couldn’t trust you to watch a tree stump, I get the job.”

  Scowling, Isaac Kennedy sullenly proceeded. But as he worked he cast many a sidelong glance at Ike Newton, the sparks of ripening hatred blazing to life in his eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun hung above the western horizon when Nate’s vision first blurred briefly, causing him to rein up and blink rapidly as tears of discomfort washed over his pupils. He had just made it safely through the high pass and down the slippery slope. The sight of the dead panther had brought immense relief, the dead cat explained the shot he’d heard earlier and tended to indicate Winona was still safe.

  Now he wiped the back of his left hand across his eyes and gazed at a narrow stream in front of him. The landscape came into sharp focus again, prompting a sigh of relief. For a second there he’d figured he was coming down with snow blindness.

  He urged Lambert’s horse onward, sticking to the trail left by Winona and her abductors. Soon the sun would set and he’d be unable to track them. As much as he despised the very idea, he would need to halt for the night. Knowing that his precious wife was somewhere in the tract of forest just ahead made him all the more eager to overtake the scoundrels and save her.

  Nate paralleled the stream and entered the trees. A hint of movement drew his attention to the northwest. There, grazing on a thin strip of brown grass he exposed, was Barking Dog’s stallion. Evidently the animal had followed the scent of the other horses until hunger compelled it to eat. Recalling his promise to return it if possible, Nate approached the big animal cautiously, fearing it would bolt.

  The stallion simply munched and scarcely paid attention to his presence.

  Sliding to the ground, Nate walked over and gripped the stallion’s Indian-style bridle. A length of rope had been looped twice in the middle around the horse’s lower jaw to form a lark’s-head knot that served as the bit, leaving the ends free for use as the reins. He patted the animal’s neck and uttered soft words, then undid the knot and removed the bridle. Making a single loop at one end, he slipped the loop over the stallion’s head, clasped the other end, and climbed back into the saddle.

  Turning Lambert’s horse, Nate resumed his pursuit. He realized he must find a suitable spot to camp soon or darkness would catch him stranded in the trees. There was plenty of water but he had to find ample food for both animals before he could rest for the night.

  The upper rim of the sun was barely visible when he finally found a small open space bordering the stream and called it quits for the day. He guessed Newton and company to have at least a five-mile lead, probably more. If not for the deep snow he would have caught up with them by now.

  Nate let the horses drink a little, then went into the forest and searched for vegetation. He kicked the snow aside at various points, exposing the ground underneath, until he found an area overgrown with weeds and brown grass. Clearing off a ten-foot circle, he stood by and idly watched the animals eat. As he stood there his vision blurred for the second time.

  Panicked, he barely breathed until once again everything became crystal clear. Why did it keep happening? he wondered. He was glad night would soon descend, giving his eyes relief from the shimmering snow cover.

  A loud rumbling in his stomach reminded him of his own need for food. After all the wounds he’d sustaine
d, he couldn’t afford to go for long without eating. Yet if he waited for the horses to get their fill, it would be too dark for him to shoot accurately. Accordingly, he tied both animals to tree limbs bordering the cleared space and walked into the undergrowth to find game.

  Only then did the difficulty of his task become apparent. The heavy snow had driven the majority of wild animals into their dens, burrows, or heavy brush. Few creatures other than birds were abroad. He walked hundreds of yards and saw only a few sparrows.

  His stomach growled again. Nate halted beside a towering pine tree to scan the landscape. The sun had disappeared and already the amount of light had diminished by a third. To compound the situation, the air was rapidly becoming colder. He cradled the Kentucky in his elbows and began to make a loop back toward the horses. As he passed a thicket he registered movement out of the corner of his left eye and peered into the tangle of thin, barren branches to discover a white rabbit moving slowly out the far side.

  Instantly Nate snapped the rifle to his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took a bead on his potential supper. He steadied his arms before squeezing the trigger. At the booming retort the rabbit flipped into the air and landed on its side, then thrashed about on the snow, staining the cover crimson, before it expired.

  Elated, Nate barged through the thicket and scooped the mammal up. He couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into a roasted piece of meat. Spinning, he hastened back to the horses. The darkness intensified more every minute. Verifying the animals were all right, he decided to let them continue grazing and went to the small clearing beside the stream. He bustled about gathering limbs and soon had a roaring fire going. The welcome warmth brought a smile to his lips.

  Skinning and preparing the rabbit took less than five minutes. Next he erected a makeshift spit over the fire. After finding two forked branches, he imbedded the bottom end of each into the ground, one on either side of the flames. He used his knife to smooth down and sharpen a long, slender, straight branch and inserted the tip through several chunks of rabbit meat. Then, after suspending the straight piece between the forks, he squatted and watched in anticipation as the crackling fingers of red and orange licked at the meat.