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

by Robbins, David

  The delicious aroma made his mouth water. He greedily licked his lips and turned the spit occasionally to prevent the meat from burning. All the while his stomach did its best to imitate an enraged grizzly bear. When finally satisfied that the meat had been roasted long enough, he deposited the Kentucky at his side and lifted the long branch.

  His nose tingled and his lips quivered as he raised the meat to his mouth. The rabbit was hot to the touch, but he took a bite anyway. Slowly, savoring the taste, he chewed the mouthful and swallowed. He inadvertently looked into the fire, thinking to himself that he’d never eaten such flavorful rabbit, and unexpectedly his vision blurred for the third time.

  Nate immediately closed his eyes and swung his head away from the bright flames. Both of his temples pounded painfully as he waited for the sensation to subside. Dear Lord! What would he do? He’d be at the complete mercy of the elements and any wild animal that came along without his sight. Not to mention poor Winona’s certain fate if he failed to save her.

  After a bit he tentatively cracked his eyelids and felt monumental relief at being able to see perfectly once again. Keeping his back to the fire, he proceeded to polish off the rest of the meat on the spit. It barely whetted his appetite. Accordingly, he slid several more chunks onto the sharpened branch and carefully aligned it on the forked limbs while keeping his gaze averted from the flames.

  Feeling renewed, his insides wonderfully warm, Nate started to stretch when he heard a sound that turned his blood cold.

  Both Lambert’s horse and Barking Dog’s stallion started neighing in terror.

  ~*~

  Isaac Kennedy was furious, both at himself and his recently acquired business associate. He was mad at himself for going along with such a hare-brained, get-rich-quick scheme when he should have known better. And he was mad at Newton for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the trapper’s condescending attitude and demeaning remarks.

  Back in Ohio, when Newton had first proposed the idea, the mountaineer had behaved like a proper gentleman. But after they journeyed to St. Louis and were joined by Lambert, Newton’s attitude changed, becoming one of open sarcasm. Lambert had only aggravated the situated and fueled Newton’s underlying contempt. Now Isaac knew that both men had despised him. They saw him as a blithering incompetent.

  How dare they!

  He was the one who had put up the capital for their venture. He was the one who had obtained the merchandise needed to conduct trade with the Utes. He was the one who had dropped everything and left the comfortable life to ensure their success.

  The ungrateful sons of bitches.

  As Kennedy sat on the east side of the fire contemplating the injustice done him, his gaze strayed to the lovely Shoshone woman off to his left. He’d never known an Indian woman before, never realized how truly beautiful they were. The mere sight of her stimulated him in a way he hadn’t been stimulated in ages. He secretly watched her, his gaze lingering on her exquisite face. Every now and then he would look lower and frown.

  Seated on the west side of the campfire, absently gnawing on jerked venison, Ike Newton was also staring at the Shoshone, only he did so openly and with malice etching his expression. “It appears you were right, squaw,” he declared bitterly. “If Lambert was still alive, he’d have caught up with us by now. Which means your husband likely killed him.”

  Winona said nothing, her eyes fixed on the inky wall of vegetation bordering the clearing.

  “Lambert was the best friend I ever had,” Newton went on. “I’m not about to take this lying down.” He touched the Hawken lying across his lap. “I aim to pay Grizzly Killer back.”

  “You would be wise to let me go and leave this country as fast as your legs will carry you,” Winona said. “If you don’t, my husband will hunt you down.”

  “Let him come, bitch.”

  Kennedy stiffened. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  “Lady?” Newton repeated, and chuckled. “Indian women are little better than whores, Isaac.”

  “They are not.”

  “What the hell do you know? Have you ever lived with a squaw?”

  “No.”

  “Ever bedded one, even once?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then don’t go getting on your high horse unless you’ve been in the saddle. I bet you don’t know that trappers at the rendezvous can practically buy any Indian woman they want.”

  “What do you mean ‘buy’ them?”

  Newton laughed. “You’re a storekeeper. You’re supposed to know all about buying and selling and stuff like that.” He paused. “I’m telling you that trappers can buy Indian girls for a day, a month, hell, even a year if they want. A few yacks, like King, marry them.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Leaning forward, Newton clenched his fists and glowered. “No man calls me a liar and gets away with it.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say you weren’t telling the truth.”

  “It sure sounded like that to me.”

  Kennedy deliberately refrained from meeting the trapper’s stare. He glanced down at his right side where his rifle lay propped on his bedroll. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ike. Would you do me a favor?”

  “What?” Newton responded in surprise.

  “I still don’t have the hang of loading my gun. Either I don’t add enough powder or I forget to wrap a patch around the ball. Would you load it for me? If we run into hostile Indians I want to be prepared.”

  Newton muttered a sentence under his breath, only a few words of which were audible, something to the effect of “waste of manhood.” Then he sighed and nodded. “Sure. I’ll load your piece for you. Bring it here.”

  Grabbing his rifle, Kennedy rose and walked around behind Winona to hand the gun to his partner. “Sorry I’m so scatterbrained, Ike.”

  “We can’t all be Daniel Boone,” Newton said, referring to the Pennsylvania-born frontiersman who had died only eight years before yet whose exploits were already legendary. He stood and methodically commenced reloading the storekeeper’s rifle using his own powder horn and taking a ball from his own ammo-pouch.

  Kennedy stood patiently to one side, observing. His eyes darted to the Shoshone woman twice. He clasped his hands at his waist and nervously twined and untwined his fingers.

  “The trouble with you and most Easterners,” Newton said as he worked, “is that none of you were ever taught how to fend for yourselves. You’ve grown so accustomed to buying whatever you need to live, you can’t even provide the necessities. Why, if you ever found yourself stranded in the Rockies, you wouldn’t last two days.”

  “I suppose not,” Kennedy said, gnawing on his lower lip.

  “It’s not your fault,” Newton said, removing the ramrod from the portly man’s gun so he could shove the ball and patch down the barrel. “I blame your parents. Any father who doesn’t teach his kids how to live off the land, find water and kill game, isn’t much of a father in my book.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Ike,” Kennedy said, glancing to his left at the sizeable pile of broken branches he’d gathered earlier for use as firewood during the night.

  “I doubt anyone in New York City even knows how to skin a deer,” Newton rambled on while sliding the ramrod down the Kentucky. “At the rate things are going, in fifty years no one will be able to make do for themselves.”

  “Deplorable,” Kennedy stated. He tentatively stepped toward the pile. “I think I’ll add another limb to the fire.”

  “Just one,” Newton advised. “If we use too many now, you’ll have to go out in the middle of the night and collect more.”

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen,” Kennedy replied, and leaned down to select the stoutest branch he could find. Holding it in both hands, he stared at his partner’s back and gave the branch a practice swing.

  “Your rifle is loaded,” Newton announced, replacing the ramrod. “Try not to blow your foot off.”

&n
bsp; “I won’t,” Kennedy said, sliding up behind the trapper and raising the branch on high. Then, ever so politely, he said, “Ike?”

  “Yeah?” Newton responded, pivoting.

  The storekeeper swung the branch with all his strength, putting his entire weight into it. His blow caught Newton squarely on the forehead and spun the man around. Newton fell where he stood, the Kentucky slipping from his limp fingers, his hair within inches of the flames.

  Quickly Kennedy discarded the club and scooped up the Kentucky rifle. As fast as he was, though, the Shoshone almost beat him to the punch. The instant Newton fell, Winona made a move toward the Hawken lying near his feet. Kennedy swung the Kentucky toward her and shook his head. “Stop!”

  She paused, her arm outstretched toward the rifle.

  “The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you,” Kennedy told her, “but I will if you force me. Until you prove that you can be trusted, I can’t let you get your hands on a weapon.”

  Winona frowned, her gaze lingering on her husband’s gun.

  Not taking a chance, Kennedy kicked the Hawken aside. “All right. I want you to get the horses ready. We’re moving out.”

  “You want to travel at night?”

  “Yes. I plan to deliver the merchandise to Two Owls myself, and the sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll reach his village. Once I have the beaver furs he promised, I can head back to the States a rich man.”

  “Why take me along? You can do it yourself.”

  “I’m afraid not. I need someone who can interpret for me.”

  “But I don’t speak the Ute tongue.”

  “Newton told me all about Indian sign language. So get cracking with the horses.”

  Straightening, Winona gazed westward. “You are taking a great risk. Two Owls agreed to trade with Newton and Lambert, not you. He might take your crates and have you scalped. And it is certain the Utes will never let me leave their village.”

  “You let me worry about Two Owls,” Kennedy said. “Don’t fret yourself about the Utes keeping you hostage, either. I have a plan that will keep you out of their clutches.”

  “And then what? Will you take me back to my husband?”

  Kennedy hesitated before answering. The corners of his mouth tilted upward when he spoke. “You have my word that once we’re done with the Utes, I’ll take you back.”

  Ike Newton unexpectedly groaned.

  “What about him?” Winona asked.

  “What indeed?” Kennedy rejoined. He stepped to the Hawken, tucked the Kentucky under his left arm, and bent over to retrieve the shorter rifle. Cocking the hammer, he moved to the trapper’s side and pointed the barrel at Newton’s head.

  “You would shoot a man who can’t defend himself?” Winona inquired.

  Kennedy had never killed anyone in his life. But he thought of the thirty thousand dollars he stood to gain and the bonus besides if he played his cards right, and he had no trouble at all pulling the trigger. The recoil made the Hawken jerk in his hands. He looked down through the gun smoke and grimaced at the mess the ball had made of Newton’s face.

  Winona was silent, her expression grim.

  “Put this rifle on one of the pack animals,” Kennedy directed, and tossed the Hawken to her. She caught it and walked toward the tethered string.

  Far in the distance a wolf howled.

  Grinning, Kennedy gazed up at the stars and inhaled the crisp air. Instead of feeling remorse over killing Newton, he felt invigorated. So this was what it felt like to stand on one’s own feet! For perhaps the first time in his life he’d taken his destiny into his own hands and he felt marvelous. Glancing at Winona, who was moving among the pack animals, he hefted the Kentucky and chuckled. Ike had been right all along.

  Fending for one’s self was the only way to live.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nate raced through the gloomy forest toward the horses, the rifle in his right hand. Both animals were still whinnying in fright. He had ten yards to cover when a feral snarl reached his ears. Increasing his pace, he crashed through the brush and burst from the woods into the clearing.

  Both horses were trying to pull free, their great hooves stamping the ground, their ears pricked and their eyes wide.

  The source of their fear was crouched on the east side of the open space. A large lynx, a cat not half the size of a mountain lion but equally savage if cornered, hissed at Nate the second he appeared, then wheeled and bounded into the undergrowth.

  Nate let it go. He watched the thickly furred body and stubby tail disappear in the darkness before going to the horses to calm them. Since it would be virtually impossible for a lynx to bring down a full-grown horse, he assumed the cat had merely been curious. From accounts related by other trappers, he knew that lynxes typically subsisted on birds, rodents, and the remains of dead deer or moose. Occasionally they would bring down a starving or sickly deer, but for the most part the larger mammals were beyond their capability to subdue.

  He calmed both horses and led them back to the campfire. Halfway there he stopped short at the faint sound of a shot coming from much farther up the valley. He cocked his head, waiting for a second retort, but heard none.

  Logic dictated that Newton or Kennedy must be responsible. Why had they fired? He doubted they were hunting game so late. Could they possibly mean the shot as a signal for Lambert? If so, they were doomed to be terribly disappointed.

  He secured both animals and sat down to finish eating the rabbit. The chunks he’d placed on the spit were quite well cooked. He dug into them relishing the meal, and only when the last edible portion of the rabbit was sliding down his throat did he lean back, smack his lips, and wipe his greasy hands on his buckskins. For good measure he belched.

  Nate was careful not to stare at the fire, even indirectly. His eyes seemed to have recovered. Now all he needed was a good night’s rest and he’d be after those bastards in the morning.

  He reluctantly rose and gathered spare wood to be used before dawn. After accumulating a sufficient quantity, he scooped out the snow down to the ground within a foot of the flames. Taking the blanket Lambert had carried in a roll tied behind his saddle, he spread it in the hole, then settled down on his back and nestled the rifle against his right side.

  Nate closed his eyes and listened to the crackling of the fire and the whispering of the wind. As fatigued as he was, he expected to fall sound asleep within minutes. But this wasn’t the case. His mind raced of its own volition, reviewing the incident at the cabin and the subsequent events with startling clarity.

  He rolled onto his side, thinking the change of position would enable him to finally doze off. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t get the image of Winona in Newton’s clutches out of his mind. Surely even a scoundrel like Newton wouldn’t lay a finger on a pregnant woman, he assured himself. But the assurance rang false.

  Opening his eyes, he gazed up at the stars. Deep down he blamed himself for Winona’s predicament. Had he been more vigilant back at the cabin, had he not accepted Kennedy with open arms and thus allowed himself to be distracted, she wouldn’t be in their hands.

  He’d completely forgotten two rules of thumb passed on by his mentor, Shakespeare McNair. As one who had spent the greater portion of his life in the wilderness, Shakespeare knew best how to survive. The old mountaineer was a veritable fount of wisdom, and Shakespeare had said, quite somberly, “Out here a man can’t afford to let his guard down for a minute. If you want to last, you must amend the golden rule a mite. Love your enemies, but always remember to keep your gun loaded.”

  Truer words had never been spoken, Nate reflected. Of course, sometimes the mountain man made no sense whatsoever, such as the time Shakespeare had said, “If a man hasn’t made any enemies by the time he’s thirty-five, then he can pretty much chalk up his life as a failure.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  He rolled over on his other side and shifted his weight. The idea of not even bothering to sleep occurre
d to him. If he saddled up right away, he might overtake Winona by morning. But he’s also likely to be so tuckered out that he wouldn’t be worth a hoot against Newton. The trapper was bound to be a tough customer in a pinch. Kennedy, on the other hand, didn’t worry him in the least. If ever a totally harmless specimen of manhood had been born, the portly storekeeper was the one.

  Gradually his mind wound down. He roused himself once to feed more branches to the fire and check on the horses, then he settled back down and, in no time flat, he was snoring away. Even in sleep, though, his anxiety made itself known. He dreamed a horrifying dream in which his beloved wife was ravaged repeatedly by a smirking Ike Newton and—surprise of all surprises—an equally lewd Isaac Kennedy. Several times he called out her name and was awakened by his own shout.

  Toward morning he broke out in a sweat and woke up with a violent case of the shivers. Feeding the flames, he moved closer and let the warmth seep into his pores. Drowsiness descended again and he dozed off, fitfully stirring every now and then to glance around.

  Another dream terrified him beyond belief. In it, he saw Winona tied to a burning stake while prancing Utes whooped in delight around her. Gratefully, his mind then sank into an inky realm devoid of thoughts and dreams and he slumbered quietly, oblivious to the world around him.

  ~*~

  The neighing of the horses awoke Nate with a start and he sat up to see the sun already above the eastern horizon. Furious at himself for oversleeping, he glanced toward the trees where the animals were tied and felt the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingle.

  Standing twenty feet away, its eyes fixed balefully on the mounts, was an enormous grizzly.

  Nate leaped to his feet, the Kentucky in his hands. No matter how many times he saw the brutes or tangled with them, he still couldn’t get over their immense size and power.